


Snow White, Blood Red

by Shadowcatxx



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Animal Transformation, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Beauty and the Beast Elements, Claiming, Fairy Tale Retellings, Kidnapping, M/M, Magic, Red Riding Hood Elements, Romance, Shapeshifting, Werewolves
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-19
Updated: 2019-08-24
Packaged: 2019-09-22 12:29:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 60,957
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17059790
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shadowcatxx/pseuds/Shadowcatxx
Summary: There are wolves in the woods. Matthew learns this when a wild, red-eyed alpha abducts him to be his mate. Fortunately, the boy has a loving (overprotective) family, including a cousin who's a fey changeling and a trigger-happy twin brother. If Gilbert wants to claim Matthew, he'll have to learn how to be human first.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Please excuse my taking liberties with some character names & relationships.
> 
> This story is very loosely based on several different versions of "Little Red Riding Hood" and "Beauty and the Beast".
> 
> CAST OF CHARACTERS (in order of appearance):
> 
> CANADA — Matthew
> 
> ENGLAND — Arthur
> 
> FRANCE — Francis
> 
> AMERICA — Alfred
> 
> PRUSSIA — Gilbert
> 
> ROMANO — Lovino
> 
> SPAIN — Antonio

**MATTHEW**

Mathieu is just tired, darling, let him sleep."

"He's barely spoken a word since he returned from the forest, Francis. And he's cold as death. I'm worried that he's caught the sleeping sickness, like Alfred. He's so pale."

"Mathieu is always pale, no need to fret over that."

"I wish he would eat something."

"He will when he's hungry. He _is_ sixteen. Just let him be."

"I worry, you know—about both of them."

"I know, Arthur, but you're the most skilled healer in the village. Alfred will recover. And Mathieu? He spent a long, cold night in the forest. He's just fatigued.

"Let him be," repeats my cousin's fiancé. I can hear his gentle voice fading as he leads Arthur away from the shared bedroom, where Al and I sleep. It's dark, but it's not quiet. I can hear my twin brother's laboured breaths as he sleeps, fighting a pneumonic illness commonly called _the sleeping sickness_ , because once the victim falls asleep they rarely ever wake. I'm not worried about Al, though. Francis is right, my cousin, Arthur, is the best healer in the village. He used the dragon's kiss I collected in the forest to brew medicine to save Al. ( _Dragon's kiss_ is the common-tongue name for the red stalks that grow wild at the roots of the mountain.) That's why I had ventured into the forest tonight. Francis had warned me not to go—"not tonight, not beneath a blood moon"—but Al's state was worsening and Arthur was panicking and I knew that my twin brother wouldn't live to see dawn if he didn't get the medicine. So, I snuck out. I left the cottage and stole away into the night with nothing but a lantern and a basket and wearing a long cloak as red as the dragon's kiss I was going to find.

Now my brother is safe, but I don't think I am.

Lead-glass windowpanes are not enough to silence the wolf howls that echo through the night. I hear them— _him_ —calling and I shiver. I pull a big patchwork quilt tightly around my shoulders, hugging myself, feeling cold, but it doesn't still my racing heart. Gingerly, I touch my fingers to the deep punctures in my neck; the ones that feel hot, as if inflamed; the ones I lied to Arthur about when I reported to be unhurt. He was too distracted by Al's needs to notice such a simple wound, especially hidden under my cloak, but Francis knows, I'm sure of it. I think he knows something that I do not. He didn't confront me about it, but he looked at me in a way too sharp and scared to be ignorant.

I don't regret leaving the cottage tonight. I fetched the ingredient that saved my brother's life. But I do wish I had taken more heed of Francis' warning.

"There are wolves in the woods," he had said.

If only I had known what kind.


	2. One

**MATTHEW**

My footsteps crunch loudly in the silence, sinking in fresh snow. It's a bright night. Ice-crystals glisten as they reflect the red glow of a pregnant moon. Blood moons are very bad-luck, they say, and I believe it. My twin brother is lying on his death-bed in my cousin's tiny thatched cottage. His fiancé—a man I love and respect—warned me not to leave the cottage tonight, not to venture alone into the forest, but what choice do I have? Al will die without medicine made from dragon's kiss, and dragon's kiss only grows at the roots of the mountain.

The trek is long, but easy. Moonlight bathes the path, unhindered by skeletal, sleeping trees, rendering my lantern unnecessary, but I clutch it tight nonetheless. The forest is dangerous on a midwinter's night, too many empty bellies and starving eyes. An owl hoots and I flinch. Arthur told me once that true bravery is when you persevere even when you're most afraid, and if that's true than I am very brave, because tonight I am very afraid. My heart is beating hard as my legs carry me into the mountain's shadow. I've never trekked the forest at night before, never this far, and never by the light of an odious blood moon. Fortunately, the dragon's kiss is easy to spot. The stalks grow straight up through the snow. The way it haphazardly litters the forest floor, red and unbending—a hardy weed—makes it look like a field on fire. I kneel in the middle of it and begin pulling, careful not to break the stalks and lose the juice. I yank with both hands, ripping the plants up by the roots and lay them one-by-one into the basket. The medicine that Al needs requires a large number of stalks to supply a small volume of juice. It takes me a long time to collect enough. I work until I'm breathless and red-palmed, the stalks staining my hands. I don't even realize that I'm talking to myself, babbling—"It's okay, Al, you're going to be okay, I'll be back soon."—until I start to sing.

It's a melodious song that I sing without understanding the words. Francis taught it to me years ago when he first came to our village. It's in a foreign-tongue that I don't speak, but I've memorized the lyrics. Francis used to sing Al and I to sleep when we were a lot younger, long before he and Arthur were engaged. It's a sad song, I think, a ballad of lost love, but the familiarity of it and the sound of my own voice quiets my nerves.

It's a long, slow song, and before I can finish a low growling interrupts.

Startled, I leap up and whip my head from side-to-side, searching for the growl's source. Despite the barren forest, I don't immediately spot him; not until he moves. He's a huge white wolf—the biggest wolf I've ever seen, the size of a stout mountain pony. White coat, white claws, white teeth, so white the snow camouflages his whole body. All but his eyes, which are red. Snow white, blood red. That's what he is, and he's looking at me like I'm something he wants to devour.

We stare at each other for a moment, frozen, then I take a frightened step back and immediately wish that I hadn't. The wolf lunges at me. I don't even have time to scream before he crashes into me, knocking me off my feet. On my back in the snow, I lie petrified beneath his heavy weight, his beastly strength.

 _I'm going to die_ , I think briefly. Then, sadly: _Al's going to die._

I close my eyes, but not before a tear squeezes out. It rolls down my cheek, but doesn't fall.

A warm, wet sensation touches my face, tasting the tear. It feels like—saliva.

I open my eyes and look up into the angular, red-eyed, snow-white face of a man. A man who has just licked my face.

I'm stunned speechless. My eyes go wide in shock and my body starts to tremble, but no sounds escape me.

The man, too, is silent. He's big and tall, like the wolf, and he's strong. He pushes down on my forearms with bruising firmness, straddling me, letting his nude weight pin me under him. My heart is racing as he leans down and smells me, pressing his nose to the underside of my chin, my neck. It's very wolfish, the intrusive way he touches me. There is nothing soft or courteous about this man. There is nothing tame. When he lifts his head, he shows his teeth—sharp canine teeth—and lets me hear his growl. It's a low, throbbing sound born in the base of his throat. I don't know what it means. I don't know what he wants from me, this wild animal in human-form, so I bow my head, too timid to keep eye-contact with him. The growl morphs into a satisfied rumble.

Then he swoops down without provocation and sinks his teeth into my neck.

Finally, I scream. My whole body jolts and arches against him, and my voice breaks the silence of the forest.

Then I faint.

* * *

The wolf is gone when I wake, gone without a trace. It makes me wonder if the whole experience wasn't a fever-dream or a hallucination—perhaps I _have_ caught the sleeping sickness—but the puncture wounds in my neck prove it's not.

I've been bitten. But by what, I don't know.

Shivering, I slowly ease myself to my feet. I refasten my cape and collect the basket filled with red dragon's kiss and begin to walk. At first, it's directionless. I'm walking because I don't want to be still. I feel so exposed. But my pace quickens when I spot the footpath, which leads back through the forest to the village. I hadn't realized I'd strayed so far from it as I foraged. I've been warned often by Francis never to stray from the path. Now I know why.

It's almost dawn when I reach the cottage, nestled beneath of copse of old, crooked pine trees at the edge of the village. Al's time limit is approaching fast. Arthur knows this, which is why he doesn't yell or scold or question me when I enter, cold as ice and covered in it. He gives me a loaded look and wordlessly takes the basket of dragon's kiss, then sets to work brewing a potion to heal Al's sickness. I intend to aid him, but my legs suddenly lock and I stumble, grabbing the table for support. My whole body is stiff with cold and aches in exhaustion. Francis is at my side in a single bound, one hand pressed to my back, the other looping under my knees. My cousin's fiancé is a lot stronger than his elegant figure suggests. He lifts me effortlessly up into the cradle of his arms and carries me into the bedroom that Al and I share. I'm grateful, because I don't think I could have walked another step on my own.

"You're cold as snow," he says, touching his hand to my cheek. My eyelids are heavy. "Mathieu?"

"I'm... tired," I whisper.

"Yes," he replies gently. "Mathieu, you're—"

He stops. He kneels down in front of me, looking incredulous, as if he can sense that something is wrong. His unblinking gaze searches my face for a sign before his eyes land on my neck. It's covered by the red cape, which I pull tighter around myself, shivering, but somehow he knows what I'm hiding.

"Sleep," he says, easing me down, covering me with a heavy quilt.

"Al?" I ask.

Francis smiles, but it's wan. "He'll be alright, thanks to you. You've done a brave thing, Mathieu. Now sleep."

I want to fight the fatigue that seeps through me. In my confusion, I want to tell Francis about the white wolf and ask him what he knows, but sleep overwhelms me and I welcome it. The last thing I feel is Francis' fingers on my neck, untying my cape, and the last thing I hear is his whispered gasp:

" _Gods_ , _no_!"

* * *

**ONE MONTH LATER**

An entire moon-cycle passes before I see the white wolf again.

I'm in the vegetable garden when it happens. Francis and Arthur are visiting the village apothecary—Arthur is likely _arguing_ with the village apothecary—and Al, healthy and happy, is hunting pheasant in the forest. I'm alone, but I'm not afraid. It's been a month since the events of that night, and my rational mind has managed to explain the unexplainable. I awoke the following morning with a raging fever, which I blamed for the wolf-man I'd met that night. And once the bite mark had lost its shape to healing and looked like any other bruise, I was finally able to stop staring at it and convince myself it was nothing but a souvenir of fainting. So when a very tall, very white stranger appears at the edge of the forest, I don't immediately panic. Not until he draws closer and I see the vibrant blood-red of his eyes. Then my heart jumps into my throat, strangling any cry for help. I think of Al and his shotgun creeping somewhere in the forest, and maybe the stranger—the wolf—senses this, because at the precise moment I open my mouth to scream, he steps forward and says:

" _Don't scream_."

His voice is low and raspy, a throaty growl. It sounds a little like someone with laryngitis, or someone who's smoked too much pipe-weed, or someone who hasn't used his human-voice in a very long time.

" _Matthew_ ," he growls, " _that's your name_." It's a fact, not a question. It's something that he's proud to know without my telling him.

"You bit me," I say, bewildered—a month of rationale gone.

" _Yes_ ," he confirms, advancing on me with purpose. He crushes the winter foliage by the force of his heavy footsteps. He's careless and reckless. He's not wearing shoes, but at least he's wearing a tattered, ill-fitting shirt and trousers. Not naked skin, not fur.

"Why?" I ask, stepping back in retreat.

He's eager, and his reply is allusive. " _I bit you. I marked you. You belong to me_ _now_ ," he says, raising more questions than he answers.

My voice trembles when I say: "I-I-I—I don't."

I'm almost at the cottage threshold now. A single step and I'll be inside. I take it and feel immeasurable relief as my boots touch the woven mat. I'm safe now. Arthur has warded the cottage with faerie spells to guard us. No one, nothing—no man or creature or hybrid—that intends to hurt me can enter the cottage.

I feel confident as I start to close the door, but the wolf grabs it. I try to push, but he's inhumanly strong. He says:

" _Gilbert_ , _that's my name._ "

And he steps inside.


	3. Two

**MATTHEW**

I stagger back. " _Wha_ —what are you?" I ask the stranger who's just entered my house, uninvited, against the faerie wards. "What do you want with me?"

                "I'm Gilbert," he repeats, grinning. "I'm a wolf. And I want you. I'm going to take you with me."

                "I-I-I—I'm not a wolf, I'm a human," I tell him, backing away.

                "No," he shakes his head, following my retreat. "You are my songbird. I heard you singing in the forest. Then I saw your face. Now you will come with me and be with me for always, Matthew. You are mine now."

                "I-I-I—I'm not!" I shout.

                I don't understand what he's talking about, me being his? It sounds wrong. It looks wrong in his eyes. He's too close to me. He intends to close the gap between us and touch me. "Stay back!" I warn him, arching my shoulders, extending my hands like a shield. But the man doesn't obey. He's not a dog, he's a wolf. And he likes the smell of my fear. He doesn't stop until my hands are flat against his chest. It's firm and warm and it undulates slowly as he breaths in-and-out. I try to pull away, but his hands are big and strong and they cover mine as he pushes down, pressing my hands flat against his beating heart. It doesn't hurt, but it traps me. It frightens me.

                "What do you want from me?" I ask again. My voice is soft, barely a whisper.

                " _What do I want_?" he repeats, removing one of his hands to touch my face. He takes my chin firmly between his thumb and forefinger and lifts my head, forcing our faces closer together. We're nearly nose-to-nose. So close, I can't not look into those red eyes. I can't not see those sharp white teeth when he smirks, revealing a wicked humour.

                "I want you to sing for me. Only me. Forever."

                He leans down, but just as his lips brush mine, he shoves me violently away.

                _BANG_!

                I hit the floor just as Al yells: " _Mattie_!"

                Gilbert snarls and lunges at Al, his teeth bared and his hands extended in attack. The shotgun goes off again, but it misses. Gilbert batters it aside and Al stumbles back, weaponless. He raises his fists to fight. My twin brother is a strong, capable man, bigger than I am, but he's still weaker than the wolf. He's still human.

                But a human with a shotgun.

                Suddenly Gilbert collapses, his hands pressed to the gunshot wound in his stomach. Blood gushes between his fingers as he sinks to his knees, gasping, trying to keep his insides inside.

                " _You fool_!" he snarls, seething at Al. His pupils are black slits and his lips are covered in bloody saliva. " _You would have killed him_!"

                It takes a moment before I realize that Gilbert is talking about me. Al could have killed _me_ with the shotgun, because the shell ripped right through Gilbert's body and struck the wall behind him, where, seconds ago, I had been standing. It takes a moment, but I realize in shock that Gilbert shoved me aside to protect me. He took that shell in his stomach to _save_ me.

                Al grabs the shotgun and aims the barrel at Gilbert, who's kneeling on the floor, bleeding on the floor.

                " _No—_!"

                I've moved before I can stop myself, placing myself in front of Gilbert. He growls in outrage at the shotgun, which Al hastily lowers.

                "Mattie!" he snaps; half-angry, half-afraid. "What in hell are you doing? Get away from that thing!"

                He grabs my shoulder to pull me back, but I shake him off. I've ripped off my sweater and I'm pressing it to Gilbert's bloody stomach, because the wolf has fallen onto his back. His pallor isn't white now, but ashen. His lips are stained red, his eyes going pale and unseeing, only half-conscious. A low, choked sound rumbles in his throat, but it's weak. It no longer sounds like a growl, it sounds like a whine.

                "Mattie!" Al urges me, trying again to drag me away. This time, he succeeds. "Just leave it alone, it's dead!"

                _Dead_ —? _No_ , _he's not dead. Not yet. He can't die. He protected me. I don't know why_ , _but he saved my life_.

                "No, he... he can't be..."

                " _Bloody-hell_!" cries Arthur suddenly.

                I whip around to face my cousin, the village healer: the human-child blessed by the fey. I tug free of Al, and I beg:

                "Save him! Please, you have to save him!"

                And I gesture to the wolf dying on our floor.

* * *

I don't comprehend much of what happens in the next thirty minutes. It's red, very red. There will be a large, dark red stain on the cottage floor unless Arthur can magic it off, but it'll live on in my memory. I hover anxiously as he works, swiftly and silently. His fingers are deft with a needle, and he's no more perturbed by the flaps of bloody flesh than he would be sewing cotton or wool. By the time he's finished, Gilbert looks like a corpse who's been sewn back together from navel to sternum. But he's not a corpse, not yet. Arthur cuts away the wolf's sullied clothes and I do my best to clean his ashen skin. He's cold from blood-loss, but hard as ice; his body is a map of rugged terrain. Then we drag him into mine and Al's room to my bed. Al refuses to help with any of the proceedings, maintaining that we should let the wolf die, so Arthur and I have to lift him onto my bed without my brother's strength. (Because of this, we accidentally bang Gilbert's head on the bedpost. He groans.) I cover him with a quilt, then step back in awe, the reality of what has happened finally hitting me.

                Al wants to tie Gilbert's wrists and ankles to the bedposts, but when I refuse he throws a fit and leaves:

                "Fine!" he snaps. "Do whatever you want, but I'm not sleeping in here with that _thing_! It's going to kill you in your sleep and eat your organs!"

                I ignore Al and sit down on his bed across from mine. To Arthur, I say: "No, he won't."

                He nods in understanding, though he, too, looks befuddled. I can see it clearly in his green eyes: nothing that intends to hurt us can cross the threshold of our cottage.

                "He saved my life," I confess. "I don't know why, but I... I don't want him to die."

                "He won't," Arthur replies. "If he were a human man he would already be dead, but he's not. He's a wolf, and wolves are strong. He'll heal."

                He doesn't sound pleased or disappointed by this as he goes quiet, a heavy silence engulfing us. I can hear an owl hooting outside, and the clock ticking the time. After a few minutes, Arthur asks:

                "Where did he come from?"

                He doesn't wonder who or what Gilbert is, I notice too late.

                I'm about to repeat, "I don't know", when Francis barges in.

                " _No_ ," he says as he grabs Arthur around the waist and pulls him back, away from my bed. He bullies Arthur out of the room, then returns for me. " _No_ , _no_ , _no_ ," he says, as if scolding a child for wrong-doing. He grabs my wrist, but unlike Arthur I'm prepared and I dig my heels into the floor, fighting his pull. " _Mathieu_ ," he snaps; half-pleading, half-angry. His eyes flit nervously to my bed and back and he makes a decision. Rather than fight me, the stronger man lifts me up and throws me over his shoulder. I don't know why, but I don't want to be separated from Gilbert just yet. Instinctively, I find myself fighting Francis in panic, making such a fuss, hitting and hollering at him, that the red-eyed wolf wakes up.

                He's out of bed and at my side in a blinding instant, a white wolf who sinks his teeth into Francis' forearm.

                Francis howls in outrage, drops me clumsily, and—to my utter horror and disbelief—suddenly takes the form of a beautiful tawny wolf, whose teeth are bared.

                I'm floored—literally. I can only watch as the white wolf attacks the tawny wolf, intent on ripping him apart. He's bigger than the tawny wolf, but he's injured. They grapple together, snarling and snapping, all teeth and spit and blood and fur, until, as quickly as it started, it stops, and both huge wolves bow to the floor, seemingly in a great deal of pain.

                Arthur is standing in the doorway, a slender silver whistle at his lips. I can't hear anything, but the wolves are both cowering on the floor.

                " _That's enough_ ," he says authoritatively, his green eyes glaring in reprimand.

                The tawny wolf's blue eyes look at Arthur apologetically; the white wolf's red eyes glower.

                I watch in fascination as Francis transforms back into a human shape, his tawny fur receding into suntanned skin. With effort Gilbert follows suit and becomes a pale, blood-flecked man crouching defensively on the floor, cowed in angry fear of the silver whistle. Arthur keeps it at his lips, even as Francis aggressively snaps:

                "You are not welcome here, Lone Wolf! This is _my_ pack!"

                Gilbert's lips curl back stubbornly, revealing his bone-white canines. "Matthew is mine," he says.

                Francis growls in warning. "No, he's not. He's a human-child, not a wolf."

                "He's _my_ human-child now. I marked him. He's mine to mate."

                I dislike that they're discussing me as if I weren't present, but I can't argue because I don't understand what they're talking about. I'm still shocked by Francis' transformation. The man I've known for eleven years, since I was five-years-old; the man who has raised me and protected me and fathered me like an older brother; the man whom my cousin is engaged to is actually a wolf. I'm shocked, because it seems impossible that he's hidden it for so long. I'm shocked, because how did I not know? A thought strikes me then and, ignoring the simmering rivalry between Francis and Gilbert, I face Arthur.

                "Did you know?" I ask him.

                Arthur rolls his eyes. "Of course I knew. Do you really think I'd marry a man without knowing that his other form is a great bloody wolf?" he asks in exasperation.

                Before I can reply, Al's voice erupts from outside: " _What the hell was that noise_?"

                Arthur sighs. "Hurry and get dressed," he says to Francis and Gilbert. "I really don't want to explain the truth to Alfred with two naked men on the floor."

                Francis agrees and quickly tugs on his discarded trousers. Gilbert, unconcerned, doesn't move. He's panting and sweating and speckled with blood. Clearly, modesty is not his priority right now, so I take the liberty of draping a blanket carefully over his shoulders. He growls quietly at me in warning, but doesn't shake the blanket off. His whole body is stiff and arched, and I can feel knots of tension in his shoulders. I'm still kneeling at his side when Al enters.

                He seems unsurprised by the blood, but his face is paler than it was. He crosses his arms and tries to sound cavalier when he says: "Has he tried to eat your organs yet?"

                "He attacked us," Francis spits in accusation. I've never seen him act so physically aggressive before. " _Vicious beast_!"

                " _No_!" I blurt defensively.  "He didn't mean to—"

                I stop, because I've started a lie. There's no question that Gilbert intended to hurt, maybe even kill, Francis. Instead, I say:

                "He was just trying to protect me. Weren't you?" I ask him, letting a note of panic into my voice. If my family doesn't like his answer, Al will shoot him. Again.

                Gilbert glances at me, but he doesn't speak; not to confirm or deny my declaration. He leans heavily on me with his head bowed, and at first I think it's a surrender, but then I realize he's passed-out.

                This time, Arthur let's Al lash Gilbert to the bedposts with several lengths of rope. Francis doesn't like it. He argues for casting Gilbert out and abandoning him to the outdoor elements, but I refuse and he stomps out in a fit. As Al ties knots and Arthur checks Gilbert's stitches—more concerned about the linens than the wolf, I think—I follow Francis into the main room, where he's pacing angrily back-and-forth. He's agitated, but there are so many questions I want to ask him. I open my mouth, but when he spots me his face softens and then he looks like the man I've known all my life. Gently, he says:

                "You should've let Alfred kill him."

                "I couldn't—"

                "You shouldn't have gone into the forest," he interrupts. "You shouldn't have let him mark you, Mathieu."

                I stare at him, feeling attacked despite his gentle tone; feeling indignant that he would blame me. Then I say: "You should've told us that you're a wolf. Why didn't you?" I ask when he looks away.

                "I didn't want to frighten you," he admits. "I never intended to remain in this village. I certainly didn't expect to fall in love with a human—with Arthur," he adds softly. He's nervous telling me this, I realize. I see it when his blue eyes lift to meet mine. "It's been hard. And it's taken me a really long time to understand how to live as a human, but this is who I am now. Not _that_." He jerks his head toward the bedroom and Gilbert. "I'm so sorry for lashing-out in there. I never wanted to frighten you," he repeats sincerely. "I've only ever wanted to protect you all. You and Alfred and Arthur are my family now. Please believe me—"

                "Francis," I say, taking his warm, human hand. "I've never been afraid of you, neither has Al. And we never will be, I promise. I'm just... shocked."

                He nods solemnly. Then he sandwiches my hand between both of his and squeezes. "You have such a good heart, darling, and I so love that about you, but you must understand what it is you've done tonight, the awful danger you've put yourself in by allowing him to live."

                He's talking about Gilbert again, only now his voice is flavoured with sympathy. Not for Gilbert, but for me.

                "Gilbert is not human like you," he says. "He's a wolf, a wild wolf. He's a threat."

                "He saved my life—"

                "Yes, but do you know why? It's because he marked you, Mathieu." His eyes go briefly to the bruise on my neck. "I'd hoped it was a mistake, but it's not. He's come for you, to take you away. He's chosen you to be his mate. Do you understand what that means?"

                I look incredulously at Francis, thinking that it can't possibly mean what I think it does, but the regret in his eyes says otherwise.

                "I'll just tell him I don't want to be his mate," I start, but Francis shakes his head.

                "I'm afraid it's not that simple. Gilbert is an alpha wolf," he emphasizes. "He doesn't understand the rules of human society, or human emotion. When a wolf chooses a mate it's based on desire and instinct, and when an alpha marks his intended it's not something that can be reversed. In a pack, the strongest wolf—the alpha—has first choice of eligible mates, then his hunters in declining order of hierarchy. But Gilbert's not a pack wolf, not anymore. He's a loner, an exile, which means no one is challenging him for you. He's bound by no pack laws, let alone human laws. He won't take kindly to rejection, Mathieu. He won't accept it. A wolf's bond to his mate is strong. Wolves take one mate for life and become unfailingly devoted to him, very loyal, and very possessive. And for whatever reason, Gilbert has chosen you."

                "So, what are you saying?" I ask, feeling suddenly cold. "He'll never leave?"

                "No, not without you, Mathieu. Just as Gilbert can't understand human society, I'm afraid you can't possibly understand the depth of the decision he's made. You'll never be rid of him now as long as he lives.

                "That's why you should have let him die."

* * *

**LATER**

I creep on my tip-toes into the bedroom, careful not to wake the sleeping wolf. Al is sleeping in the main room by the hearth, dead-set against sleeping in his bed. I'm supposed to be sleeping beside him, but I can't sleep tonight. I keep picturing all of the blood and I feel compelled to check on Gilbert. I just want to look at him to be sure he's okay; his heart still beating, his lungs still breathing. I sneak to the bedside and cautiously sit down. As far as I can tell, all of his organs are working properly, but I'm not a healer and his pallor worries me. He's so pale I can see the veins under his skin. His eyelids are dark and they flutter, like he's dreaming. I wonder if it's a nightmare. After a minute, he makes a noise like a whine. I reach out to touch him to gauge his temperature and soothe his fear, but as I do his nose twitches and he grumbles and I'm still touching his face when he opens his eyes. For a moment, I freeze. I know he can't hurt me with his limbs tied to the bedposts—I know he wouldn't hurt me anyway; the faerie wards don't lie—but I hold my breath until he says:

                " _Matthew_."

                "S-s-sorry," I say, removing my hand.

                "No," he groans, trying to lift his head, "don't go."

                I sit back down, my hand hovering at his side. I feel awkward, as if I've been caught doing something wrong. "How are you feeling?" I inquire.

                His eyelids flutter heavily; he's very tired. In a low, rasping voice, he says: "Have you ever been shot through the stomach and then lashed to a bed?"

                "No," I admit.

                His lips curl into a crooked smile. "Bad," he says. "I feel bad."

                I bow my head guiltily. "I'm sorry. Al, my brother, he was only—"

                "Trying to protect you," he finishes, "I know. Just like the fey-child's pet. You're lucky to be so loved."

                It's odd, but my misplaced guilt only increases when he says this, as if I'm at fault for having a living, loving family when he doesn't. I don't know what to say, except for, "Yes", because it's true. I _am_ lucky to have them. Arthur, who's been playing parent to Al and I since our birth-parents died, so long ago now that I can't even recall their faces; and Francis, who's been our steadfast protector for nearly as long; and Al, who's been my constant companion since birth. I don't need Gilbert to tell me how loved I am, because I know it. What I don't know is why I suddenly feel so saddened by his words and the depressed look on his face.

                I fetch him a ladle of water and help him drink it, holding it to his lips. I refill it twice before he lies back and closes his eyes.

                "Sing for me," he orders.

                And maybe it's because of pity or guilt, but I do. I sing him the song I had sung in the forest on the night we met. It's long, and Gilbert has fallen asleep before the end, but I finish it anyway. I tuck the blankets around his torso, not because I think he'll be cold but because I'm lingering. Then I gently touch the tethered hand of the man— _man_? _wolf_?—who endangered and saved my life today.

                _Thank-you_ , I think, but don't say.

                _Goodnight_ seems an unlikely hope after you've been shot, so I simply whisper: "Sleep well."


	4. Three

**GILBERT**

I remain in the cottage lashed to the bed for three days, hating everything except the boy with the violet eyes. He's my only joy. My Matthew, the human-boy I've chosen to mate. It was a rash decision, but every day proves it was a good one. The right one. For three days I pretend to be asleep so that he'll touch me; he's too timid to approach when I'm awake. I wish he'd touch me more, for longer. I wish he'd stay beside me and hold my hand, or pet my head, like the tawny wolf's mate does. I wish that my Matthew's gentle touches had more strength and confidence, but he's always careful. He's so tame. Unlike the green-eyed one, who knows he won't, _can't_ , easily hurt a wolf with his human hands, my Matthew always seems to be afraid. _For_ me or _of_ me, I don't know, and I don't know if I like it or not. I think I do. My Matthew is a meek boy compared to the other humans here. He's easily manipulated. I haven't once heard him tell the others "no". He's obedient. He follows orders quietly and doesn't fuss. The only topic that he argues about is me, my well-being, which pleases me. It proves that he's loyal, too. I like that my Matthew is weak, because it makes me feel strong. I prefer his yielding manner to the green-eyed one's arrogance, or the blue-eyed boy's rebelliousness. If I weren't confined to this sickbed, I would scare those two so badly they'd never disrespect me again.

                Thinking of them, of the fey-child's charms and the boy's shotgun, makes me angry, but my temper lessens when my Matthew enters the room.

                Quickly I close my eyes, hoping that he'll touch me, and he does. I feel the back of his fingers on my cheek and his scent fills my nose. He smells clean, like soap; and sweet, like maple-sugar; and delicious, like the fresh-baked apples wafting from the main room. I take a deep breath, and maybe he thinks I'm sighing in my sleep, but the truth is I'm memorizing his scent. I wish he would touch me longer so that his scent would linger on me, because lying in his bed isn't enough to sate my want for him. I wish I could hold him and rub _my_ scent on _him_ , so that everyone else—especially that tawny wolf—would know this human-boy is mine. Too soon he leaves the bedroom and I'm left pining for him like a lonely pup. (I blame my fatigue and captivity for this shameful feeling.)

                _Soon_ , I think, consoling myself with the fact that soon I'll be strong enough to break these braided tethers. Soon I'll leave this awful place, these awful people. I'll take Matthew away with me into the mountains where I'll make him my mate for real.

                Soon.

* * *

**MATTHEW**

Two talents, even," says Lovino as he packages vegetables into my basket, folding a chequered cloth overtop. Despite being the eldest son and heir of the richest family for leagues, Lovino prefers the grocers shop to his lavish house. In addition to the grocers, his family owns the grist mill, cobblers shop, milliners loft, schoolhouse, and a three-story inn that services locals more often than travellers. Lovino could choose to work in any of these places, or none of them, as his family's wealth is not labour-intensive, but he likes being at the grocers—perhaps because of the handsome man his family employs to run it.

                "Do you want me to carry it for you, Matt?" Antonio offers. "It's a long walk to the edge of the village and it's awfully heavy." He indicates the basket.

                "No, thank-you," I say.

                Antonio is very kind and very courteous—perhaps _too_ courteous sometimes. I know that he means well, but he seems to be under the impression that we're all frail compared to him, which is curious because he's a completely average-sized man. Al is bigger.

                "How is Feliciano faring?" I ask Lovino as I hand over the money. Feliciano is Lovino's younger brother, who is studying at the university in the city beyond the mountains.

                "He's well," says Lovino demurely. "He sends letters home every month."

                "And your grandfather?"

                "Also well," he reports. "He's decided to stay and winter in the south."

                "So, you'll be alone all winter?" I ask, surprised.

                Lovino shrugs, but before he can reply, Antonio says: "Not alone," and it's so candid and Lovino's blush is so telling that I don't pry any further.

                Antonio smiles brightly at me in farewell. "Thank-you!" he calls as the bells toll my exit. "Please come again!"

                As I'm walking past the display window, I see Antonio lean over the counter to rub his cheek against Lovino's shoulder, like a dog begging for attention, and—like a dog—he pouts when Lovino ignores him. He's a very physically-affectionate man whose odd habits the locals blame on him being foreign, but I can't imagine a better _guard dog_ for stubborn Lovino. I chuckle, watching the playful couple, and so I don't see the on-comer until I've bumped into him.

                "Oh, I'm so sorry!" I apologize, kneeling to collect the basket I dropped.

                "Vegetables, huh?" says Cal, the butcher's son, in disdain.

                I curse my clumsy bad-luck and prepare myself for an unpleasant exchange by plastering a smile to my face.

                "Good afternoon, Cal," I say, and quickly try to hurry past.

                He side-steps, and he's big and broad enough to block my path. "You haven't been coming to my shop lately. I always see Al now, but never you, Mattie."

                I cringe, thinking: _Don't call me that_. It's too familiar, too personal. Only Al calls me Mattie.

                "I'm sorry, I've been—" I think of Gilbert, "—busy."

                He eyes me skeptically, as if my personal-life is his business. Again I try to pass by him and again he prevents me doing so. He snatches the basket out of my hands, and says: "I'll carry it for you."

                "That's really not necessary," I say, feeling cornered. When Antonio offers it's out of politeness, but when Cal offers it's because he's expecting something in return. "Thank-you, but I—"

                He's not even listening to me.

                "I insist," he says, stomping off at a heavy, brisk pace. I'm left with no choice except to follow him, as he has my basket and is headed toward my house.

                It’s a twenty-minute walk from the grocers to the edge of the village and Cal talks the whole way.  At times, I wonder if he remembers I’m here because he rarely pauses in his dialogue of self-glorification to engage me or wait for me to reply. I wonder if he wouldn’t be just as happy to converse with himself? But I’m glad for his vanity, because I don’t want to talk to him any more than he cares if I answer. Soon his words become a continuous droll and my mind wanders to other things—like Gilbert. In fact, I become so consumed by thoughts of the white wolf that I don’t realize we’ve reached my house until Cal thrusts the basket back into my arms.

                “Mattie,” he says, squaring his shoulders in a cocksure way. He’s very geometric, this man; very symmetrical. He had broad features, bright eyes, and a thick beard that covers his cheeks and chin, darkening his face. It's a general consensus among the villagers that Cal is rather handsome, but the way he looks down at me and the angle of sunlight make him look sinister, whether intentionally or not. “Will you go with me to the festival tomorrow?”

                The Midwinter Festival, I’d forgotten about it.

                “Oh, uh... it’s really nice of you to ask me,” I say nervously, “but I’ll be attending the festival with my family."

                He’s unsatisfied, but he expected this. He planned for it. He takes a deliberate step toward me. “You attend _every_ festival with your family,” he says in accusation. “You've never had anyone court you. Is it because they won't let you?  Tell them you’d rather go with me this year.”

                I laugh nervously to hide a shudder.

                It’s nothing but politeness and willpower that prevents me from stepping back—retreating, running—as he comes closer. By the time he stops, he’s so close that I can smell the raw meat scent that permeates his clothes.

                “You’re, uh... fifteen or sixteen now, right?” he asks. (He doesn’t even know how old I am? Flattering.) “Old enough to make your own decisions about courtship. It’s not like you’ve got parents to please.” (Ouch.) “It’s time you started cutting ties with your family. You can’t stay with them forever. It’s time you started considering your future in the village, start thinking about marriage. I’d make you a good husband, don’t you think?” It’s posed as a question, but it’s not a question. It’s a brag. He jerks his thumb at his barrel chest in example. Fortunately, he doesn’t give me time to answer. “What are you planning to do after Arthur marries that prissy foreigner? You can’t stay with them, it's not right. Frankly, I’m surprised Arthur has let you and Al stay so long. I’m surprised he isn’t pushing you to get married. Keeping two adult children at home is odd, you know. I’m sure he’d be relieved if you married me. You'll never go hungry as my spouse. So, will you say yes?”

                I’m so confused at this point, I don’t know if he’s asking me to the winter festival or asking me to marry him. The first option makes me queasy; the second option is downright unappetising. Me, become the butcher’s spouse—? Me, live surrounded by the sight and scent of blood and raw meat? Me, obey and serve this man, ten years my senior, who has a reputation for being a frequent and violent drunk? Me, sleep beside this aggressive, arrogant man and let him touch me, let him put himself inside me? No, thank-you.

                “Hey, Mattie!”

                It’s Al, thank the gods. His shout spares me from answering.

                I clutch the basket and bid Cal a hasty farewell.

                “Just think about it!” he calls. And, unfortunately, I doubt I’ll be able not to.

* * *

_Eww_ , gross!” Al’s nose wrinkles when I tell him about Cal’s offer. Then he plucks a syrupy apple slice and bites into it, talking with his mouth full: "If he thinks for one minute that I'd let him put his greasy hands on my little brother—"

                "We're twins, Al."

                "—then he's got another thing coming. I mean, I'm not telling you not to get married, Mattie, but _Cal_ —?" His face twists. "That's just nasty. Why can’t you ever meet anyone nice?” he asks rhetorically.

                I shrug as I empty the basket. “It’s just Cal,” I understate.

                “And Red, and Jack, and the trader with the hunting dogs.” Al counts on his fingers. “Oh, and that lieutenant last year.” He flexes his fist in memory, and I'll admit that one ended rather badly. “And now it’s the wolf.” He throws his thumb over-the-shoulder, pointing to the bedroom. “Seriously, why do you only attract mean men?”

                “I don’t know. It’s not like I’m trying to.”

                “It’s because _you’re_ too nice, Mattie,” he concludes. “Anyone else would tell them to get lost and then leave before they get mad and dangerous. Or creepy,” he adds, remembering the lieutenant again. “Anyone else wouldn't give them the chance to get hopeful. That's what Lovino did when Cal approached him; didn't even give him the time-of-day. Now Cal stays away from the grocers and Lovino stays away from the butchers. He makes Antonio go instead. But you don't have an Antonio," he continues, as if Antonio really is a breed of guard dog. "And I can't always be there to tell him off. You've got to do it yourself, Mattie, like Lovino did. You've got to assert yourself or else you're going to end up with a lot of proposals from really nasty men because the nice ones will be too intimidated by them to court you. All those men go after you because they know you won’t fight back. That's why they choose you. They bully you because they know they can.”

                “Sorry,” I say in reflex.

                Al rolls his eyes.

                "I just... I worry about you, you know," he says, staring at the table.

                I'm touched by Al's devotion, but before I can reply the front door bursts open and Arthur enters in a foul temper. It swings back so forcefully that it nearly hits Francis, who jogs in just behind.

                “I'm sorry, it was just a joke, darling!” he insists, trying to make amends for something upsetting.

                Al and I exchange a teasing look and privately grin. We shouldn’t find entertainment in Arthur’s distress, but Francis’ cloying repentance is amusing. I don’t know what the insult was—though Arthur is blushing when he says: “I can’t believe you did that _in public_!”—but I know that his anger won't last. Even as he sulks by the fire, Francis wraps his arms around him from behind and rests his chin on Arthur’s narrow shoulder, then whispers something in his ear that makes my cousin blush redder. He stutters and curses, but he’s biting back a smile that soon softens his freckled face. “You’re a bloody cad,” he whispers, leaning into Francis' lips. Al rolls his eyes when they start kissing, but I can’t help admiring the happiness they've found in each other. Francis is so attentive and tender that it's easy to forget he's a wolf. As I watch him—his blue eyes twinkling, velvet lips whispering things to Arthur that make my cousin chuckle—I really can't believe he's the same breed of wild beast as the red-eyed wolf tethered to my bed.

                " _Gods_!" Al groans in annoyance. "You've got a bedroom, don't you? Use it!"

                Arthur's reply is cocky and colourful as he pulls Francis into their shared bedroom, leaving Al and I with a scarring mental-image.

                Three days ago I never would have contemplated Arthur and Francis' relationship, but since discovering that Francis is a wolf, and that I, too, have attracted the attention of a wolf, I've become curious about the intimate details of their courtship. It's enough to make me wonder if Arthur has Francis' bite mark somewhere on his body, like I have Gilbert's. I wonder if Francis plans to _mate_ Arthur in the same way Gilbert intends to mate me? (That thought makes me blush.) Has he already? I start to wonder embarrassing, anatomical things like: Can a wolf in his human-form and a regular human have sex? Can they reproduce? And if so, would the union produce a human baby, or a wolf pup, or a hybrid? Would the offspring be a full-blooded wolf, or a half-breed? It's a disturbing thing to picture. Could a human even survive a cross-species birth?

                "Hey, Mattie, you okay?" Al asks, interrupting my thoughts. "You haven't blinked in, like, five minutes."

                I shake my head to rid myself of an even more scaring mental-image than Arthur and Francis together.

                "I'm fine."


	5. Four

**MATTHEW**

The Midwinter Festival is the second biggest festival of the year, after the autumn Harvest Festival. It's the only time during the winter months that all of the surrounding villages come together to celebrate that we're all still alive; that the summer yields have so far been plentiful enough to feed us for the winter. This year's bounty was particularly good, which is fortunate because the almanac has predicted a harsh winter. It hasn't been too bad yet, but spring is still a long way away. Al and I bathe and dress in our finest clothes for the occasion, both of us knowing how important it is to make a good impression—a _normal_ impression—especially with a fey healer and two wolves in our house. To say that most of the villagers distrust Arthur is an understatement, despite always begging him for potions; and Francis is a foreigner and disliked by the locals on principle. Al is popular, though. He's a strong and handsome young man and already one of the best hunters in the village. (Antonio is the best hunter. And he doesn't even own a shotgun!)

                "Where are you going?" Gilbert asks when I enter the bedroom. His red eyes study my figure and fine clothes suspiciously.

                I explain the festival to him as I routinely check his condition—heart beating, lungs breathing; his eyes are bright and focused, and his pallor is no longer sickly—being careful not to touch him. Arthur is right, Gilbert is a _very_ strong wolf and he's healing _very_ fast. He'll be well enough to leave soon.

                I start to walk away, but stop when he says:

                "Don't go."

                I turn back and consider him. His wrists strain at the ropes. "I'll be back later," I tell him. Perhaps he's afraid of being left alone in the cottage, lashed to the bed, so I add: "Just rest, you'll be okay. Everyone will be at the festival tonight."

                Gilbert's eyes ensnare me, tense and revealing worry. He clenches his jaw, and, as if it's hard for him, says: " _Please_ don't go."

                I don't know how long I stand there, staring in awe at Gilbert, holding that intense red gaze. Suddenly, I feel guilty for leaving him, and I start to think: _Perhaps I should stay_? My family has been careful never to leave me alone in the house with Gilbert, afraid that this half-dead wolf will carry me off, but Gilbert hasn't done any harm since his arrival, and his manners have already started to improve. Perhaps they'd understand if I told them I'd rather stay here then attend the festival, which is the secret truth. And Gilbert's plea is so earnest that I don't want to disappoint him. Perhaps if I stay back I can learn more about him. (I desperately want to know more about him.) Perhaps he'll talk to me if it's just the two of us.

                "Mattie!" Al calls loudly, and it pulls me back.

                "Rest," I repeat, giving Gilbert a small smile in farewell.

                My family and I walk together to the village, snow crunching underfoot. It's a pleasant evening. Al leads the way; Francis and Arthur walk side-by-side, their hands interlocked; and I follow behind them, lost in thought. The atmosphere feels electric tonight, the air humming with high energy. The village square is very crowded, packed with travellers and neighbours and locals, full of vendors' stalls and street performers. A big snow castle rises in the village square, delighting the children. On the opposite side of the street, wild game roasts on a spit over a crackling fire. The familiarity of it relaxes me and I return Al's giddy smile. He points to an archery contest and I follow him to the field. Al is a good shot. (Not as good as Arthur is, but I'd never tell him that. His pride is too fragile.) He thanks the game master and takes his tools, then stands in line beside the other seven contestants. I take the opportunity to survey the crowd. Antonio and Lovino have joined Francis and Arthur, and Antonio and Francis are laughing slyly together while their respective partners scowl. I wonder if Antonio knows that Francis is a wolf? Antonio has only lived in the village for four years. He came here as a hungry vagabond whom Lovino's grandfather took pity on, and, since his arrival, he and Francis have become inseparable friends. I watch Antonio's cheerful face, but if he knows of Francis' shocking secret he doesn't show it.

                "Did you see that shot, Mattie?" Al asks proudly.

                "Yes," I lie. "It was great."

                Al collects his prize—a blue ribbon, which he ties around his arm—and we saunter off to explore more of the stalls. Al talks and laughs and points at a lot of events and people and I smile and nod, but my mind is elsewhere. I see Francis and Antonio participating in a feat of strength and I wonder if it's really fair for a wolf to play human games. Perhaps Francis is holding back, though, because he and Antonio are the last two competitors standing and Antonio doesn't go down without a fight. In fact, Francis is flushed and panting and I wonder then if there isn't something real in Antonio's boasting about his strength. Al and I arrive just as Francis executes a clever feint, then pins his friend and claims a slim victory.

                "Don't I get a kiss?" he teases Arthur, displaying his prize: a red ribbon.

                Arthur rolls his eyes, but complies. He gives Francis a kiss on the cheek, then turns away and pretends to be interested in a pottery vendor to hide a smile.

                Antonio pouts at Lovino, who merely cocks an eyebrow. "You want a kiss, too?" he asks, smirking. "Then win next time."

                " _Lovi_!" Antonio whines, following Lovino into the crowd.

_I wonder if Gilbert is a stronger wolf than Francis_? I ponder as Al and Francis compare prizes, arguing over whose is more admirable. _He's bigger than Francis_ , _and a lot wilder. And he's so fit_. I can't help but recall the look and feel of the white wolf's shapely muscles, his chiselled features. _I wonder if he_ —

                "Matthew?"

                I blink. Arthur is holding out a pastry glistening with honey. "Thank-you," I say, taking it.

                He studies me curiously. "Are you okay? You seem a little distracted."

                I _am_ distracted. Distracted by the wolf lying in my bed, the one who bit me and claimed me and promises to steal me away. It's disconcerting, but intriguing as well. In less than a week, I've become obsessed with the creatures I'd thought were myth. Everywhere I look, I see wolves. I see paintings and pendants and furs for sale; I hear songs about forest beasts; I see children chasing each other with masks on their faces, squealing in laugher; I see the rise of the mountains in the distance, full of howls; and I see Francis.

                "I'm fine, just a little tired," I lie.

                Arthur knows that I'm lying, but doesn't pry. "Come on," he says instead, exasperated, "it looks like Francis and Alfred have entered another contest, the roosters. Let's you and I enter this one, too, and show them both up."

* * *

**GILBERT**

I pleaded. I begged like a helpless _human_ and he still left.

                I was anxious before, but now I'm angry. My Matthew has left me for a festival full of people. People who are not me, and who will look at him and talk to him and touch him—maybe even hurt him. It's more than I can bear to think about.

                I growl and groan and resist the urge to howl as I tug forcefully at my tethers, twisting my body. The wound in my stomach throbs, but the skin is healed and starting to scab, and my muscles ache, but it's tolerable. I clench my teeth and think of everyone who might try to steal my Matthew and claim him for themselves, and it fuels my temper and strength. I flex and strain my arms and the bedposts snap loudly, splinters of wood flying across the room. I sit up and tear at the braided tethers, using my fingernails and teeth to free myself, then I untie my legs.

                I stand for the first time in four days and stretch my muscles. It feels good as my bones crack back into place. The sharp pain in my stomach invigorates me. I've been lying in here, resting in here, for too long. I want to taste the night and feel it on my skin. I want to run. I want to return to the wilderness of the mountains.

                But first I need to find my Matthew, because I'm not leaving this place without him.

* * *

**MATTHEW**

I'm heading back to my family, a trey of steaming mugs in hand, when I hear Cal's voice:

                "Mattie!"

                _Oh_ , _no_ , I think. I can tell by Cal's tilting gait and flushed face that he's well into his cups, and I silently berate myself for taking a _short-cut_ down a deserted side street. Al has claimed a shallow hilltop in the adjacent field for my family to watch the fireworks from, but from this vantage I can't see it, which means they can't see me. I glance from left-to-right, but there's no one else nearby. I tell myself I could scream to attract attention, but know I won't. I would never make that kind of scene. Instead, I begin concocting a reason to excuse myself as quickly as possible. I tell Cal that I'm expected back, proffering the trey in proof, but he interrupts:

                "Why didn't you meet me in the square?"

                "I'm sorry?" I ask, confused.

                He steps closer; I can smell the alcohol wafting off him. "You're supposed to be with me tonight. Why didn't you meet me like we agreed?"

                "I told you," I reply as kindly as I can, "my family—"

                " _I_  told _you_ ," he snaps, making me flinch, "to think about my proposal. Have you—? It's a good proposal," he says, stepping even closer. "You won't find better in this village. Who could provide for you better than me, Mattie?"

                I cringe. "Please don't call me that," I say quietly, avoiding eye-contact. He's right in front of me now, his big, bullying size intimidating.

                "What?" He leans down. "I didn't hear you. Say it again."

                I want to. I want to challenge him. I want to refuse him, but I'm afraid. I know that he's threatening me, and I can hear Al's voice in my head telling me to fight back, shout back, but I'm too afraid of how Cal will react. He's so much bigger than I am, and drunk, and he's not afraid of blood; he slaughters animals for a living. I feel cornered as he leans down. I want to shove him away and run, but I'm too afraid of what will happen if he catches me. I've never liked direct confrontation and I've certainly never been a fighter. I don't want to be afraid to get hurt, but I am.

                " _Please_ ," I beg meekly, "I have to get back—"

                Cal grabs my shoulders roughly, causing the trey to topple and the mugs to fall. The snow hisses as their hot contents soak the cobblestone.

                "Come with me," he says; half-ordering, half-pleading. "I want you to be with me tonight."

                "N-no, I—"

                "I told people you'd be with me, so you have to be with me," he argues, pulling me, steering me back toward the crowded square. "You said you would be."

                "No, I didn't—"

                "Mattie," he says, and I can tell that he's losing what little patience he has, "for gods' sake, just come with me. It's just a festival," he snarls. "It's not like you're promised to anyone else, right? _Right_?" he insists.

                "I-I-I—"

                What is wrong with me? Why can't I say it? _No_. The answer is: _No_ , _I'm not promised to anyone_... but I can't get the words out.

                It's enough to infuriate Cal. " _Tell me_!" he demands suddenly. He shakes me. "Do you love someone else? Tell me, Mattie! Tell me who it is!"

                "I-I-I—I don't," I say, shaking my head. "I just—I-I-I—I just don't want—"

                " _What_?"

                " _You_!" I shout, shocking Cal and myself. "I don't want you! I will _never_ want you! I will never, _ever_ agree to marry you!"

                Cal is taken aback for a moment, but he's not afraid of my shout. He's not afraid of me. He grips me tighter, lifting me nearly off my feet. "Just who in hell do you think you're talking to? You're lying to me! You've already bent over for someone, haven't you?"

                "N-no— _ah_!"

                Cal shoves me and I slip and fall on the ice. His big, thick bulk looms over me, his meaty fists clenched. The alcohol has made him aggressive and fogged his judgement. False accusations spill from his mouth. I wonder if he'll regret them tomorrow.

                "You little slut!" he spits, looking as if I've betrayed him. "Just who in hell do you think you are? You—"

                Cal doesn't finish. He's attacked from behind by a white wolf, whose red eyes gleam reflectively in the light of exploding fireworks.

                Cal shouts, but no one hears him.

                Gilbert's sharp teeth are bared as he leaps over his prey to stand between the butcher and I. Then he opens his maw and growls loudly, warning Cal off, staking a claim.

                " _Wha—Wha—What the hell_?" Cal gasps, pale in fear and disbelief as the wolf becomes a wild-looking man.

                " _Matthew_ ," he snarls, raspy voice reverberating. "He is _my_ Matthew, _my_ mate," he glares darkly at Cal, "and you will not touch him again. _He belongs to me_!"

                Cal blinks and shakes his head, perhaps questioning the ale. "What kind of devil are you?" he asks, baffled.

                Gilbert grins villainously and shows his teeth. "The kind that's going to kill you," he says, then leaps.

                He lands as a wolf and rips into Cal. I rush forward and grab a chuck of his ruff, pulling at him, but he shakes me off. Cal screams as the wolf descends on him, teeth finding purchase in the yielding flesh of human skin. I hear a sickening _pop_ as Gilbert rents Cal's arm from its socket.

                " _Stop it_! _Please_ , _stop it_!" I yell, tugging at Gilbert's thick coat. " _Let him go_! _Gilbert_ , _let go_!"

                "Bloody-hell, _again_?"

                Gilbert releases Cal to yowl in pain; Cal falls back in a dead-faint, his body bloody and his arm hanging limp. I whip around to find Arthur, Francis, Al, Antonio, and Lovino at my back. They've been drawn by the commotion, by Gilbert's growls. Other villagers, too, crowd in to look, but Arthur does something elusive. He waves his hand and says "be gone" and they all retreat to watch the sky display, forgetting they saw anything else. Arthur has the silver whistle pressed to his lips like before, and, like before, Francis' face is twisted in discomfort. He has his hands clapped over his ears to shield the phantom sound, as does— _Antonio_.

                I stare agape at the happy-go-lucky grocer, whose eyes are squeezed tightly shut, his head bowed and resting on Lovino's shoulder, whimpering.

                "Arthur," says Lovino, upset. He's stroking Antonio's dark head in a soothing way unlike his usual brashness. "Stop it, you're hurting him."

                Arthur lowers the whistle. "Sorry," he apologizes to Francis and Antonio, but without taking his glaring green eyes off of Gilbert.

                The white wolf snarls and snaps his teeth, his head lowered and his pert ears flattened against his head. His shoulders are arched, ready to attack as his keen gaze slides from Arthur to Francis to Antonio, murder in his blood-red eyes. He takes a step forward in threat.

                "No, don't!" I say, placing myself between the wolf and my family, talking to both as I do.

                "Mattie," Al says stonily. His look is even, as if nothing shocks him now. "Get away from it. It's time to accept that that thing isn't a pet, it's dangerous."

                "No!" I argue, facing my family. I can feel Gilbert's hot breath at my back. I can hear him growling. "He's not, he's just—"

                Gilbert shakes impatiently and tries to get around me.

                "Stop—stop that!" I order as he pushes against me with his head, trying to knock me aside. I grab his ruff to stay my balance on the icy cobblestone, because he's very forceful. His eyes look up at me, annoyed, and he grumbles in his throat. " _No_!" I tell him firmly.

                "Matthew," says Arthur. "Alfred is right. He's not a pet."

                "Not like Francis, you mean?" I snap rashly in defence. I instantly regret it and start to apologize: "I'm sorry, I didn't mean—" but Francis interrupts.

                "Yes," he says, eyeing Gilbert distrustfully, "like me. Like Toni," he motions, and Antonio nods. (He's placed himself in front of Lovino, his body tense.) "I told you," Francis continues, taking a tentative step toward me; Gilbert's growl gets louder, "he's not tame, he's a loner. An exile. He's a killer. He was going to kill Cal. He _wants_ to kill us, and he can't understand why you're standing in the way. He's completely feral, Mathieu."

                I shake my head, logic fighting emotion that I can't explain but feel acutely. "He's only ever protected me," I argue.

                "Because he thinks you're his property," Antonio replies, "his territory." He taps his neck, implying the bite mark on mine. "Only a beast would leave so brazen a mark. But that's what you wanted, wasn't it?" he asks, glaring at the white wolf. Gilbert's snout scrunches as his jowls pull back farther, revealing more of his huge canines. Antonio is unaffected by it. Speaking directly to Gilbert, he says: "I know what it is you want to do, but, believe me, you can't. It won't last. If you take Matt away into the mountains, he'll die. Is that what you want?"

                Gilbert growls angrily.

                "He's a human-child," Francis reiterates sternly, "understand that, Lone Wolf. You _can't_ take him."

                As Francis and Antonio slowly move closer, their eyes reflecting the fireworks, Gilbert cautiously backs away. He grabs my coat in his teeth and pulls at me, insisting I follow him, but I dig my heels into the snow.

                " _Release him_ ," Francis warns, his voice more beast than human. " _Release him and be gone from here_ , _Lone Wolf_. _Be gone and never return_."

                Finally, Gilbert loses his patience. He stops pulling and releases me, but it's brief. He twists himself back into a human shape and wraps an arm around my middle from behind. My heart is pounding. I see Arthur tense and raise the whistle, and Al starts forward, but Gilbert is done negotiating. He glares hatefully at Francis and Antonio and spits on the snow at their feet.

                " _Don't give me orders_ , _you pets_!"

                To me, he says: " _Forgive me_."

                I frown. Then the back of his hand slams into my temple and everything goes black.

* * *

**GILBERT**

I throw my Matthew over my shoulder and run.

                " _Mattie_!" yells his brother, at the same time the fey-child shrieks: " _Francis_ , _go after him_!"

                The tawny wolf and a green-eyed chocolate wolf dash after me, but even in human-form I'm fast and agile. I leap over a barrier and land in a large crowd of people, whom I shove hastily out of the way. They're so fragile, these humans; they fall back so easily when I knock them aside. I can hear the two wolves— _the pets_ —in pursuit, adjacently following my movements from the deserted side-streets. Too afraid of revealing themselves to the villagers, or too afraid of accidentally hurting them, I don't know and I don't care. I break free of the crowd, ignoring the gasps and cries behind me, and sprint into the forest. My legs burn and my middle throbs as I run, and it feels good. So good to be free again. The familiar scents of the forest surround me and I follow my nose deeper and deeper into the skeletal nest of trees, feeling invigorated by the biting wind; feeling alive as my heart pounds in excitement.

                I let myself laugh, my breath materializing in the cold air, because I've lost them. Those pets have been living as humans for far too long, growing numb to their true natures. They'll never find me in here. They'll never catch me. And even if they do, I'll rip them apart.

                _I'll never let them take my Matthew from me_ , I think, slowing to a fast-paced walk. Careful not to rouse him, I pull the boy's unconscious body from my shoulder into my arms, letting his head rest on my chest, and I smile. He's so kind, this human-boy. So loyal. So obedient. So very, very beautiful. He's everything I want in a mate, and now he's mine.

                _Finally_ , _he's all mine._


	6. Five

**ALFRED**

The tawny and chocolate wolves return to the cottage after midnight, empty-handed.

                " _I'm sorry_ ," Francis gasps, panting hard. His body is flushed and covered in sweat and ice-crystals. He accepts the clean shirt and trousers Arthur hands him, and he looks so sadly at my cousin that it's hard to blame him for failing to rescue Mattie.

                But I do.

                It's Francis' fault for not telling us the truth eleven years ago. We could have been more prepared if he had. Since learning of Francis' secret, the proof of his other form, looking so like the wolves I've hunted and shot, I've been keeping my distance from him. It's petty, but I can't forgive him for lying. I feel betrayed by he and Arthur for not trusting Mattie and I with the truth; for not telling us that Francis—and Antonio—is a beast. In fact, I'm more upset with Arthur, because he should've told us. He's the one who brought a wolf into our home and let us believe he was a regular human for eleven years. He let a wolf play caregiver to children, for gods' sake! He's the one who promised to protect us, whose faerie wards failed to stop the white wolf from stealing into our house and attacking Mattie. He's the one who healed the beast when I shot it. If I hadn't been ignored by my own family, if that wild _thing_ had died like it was supposed to, then my brother wouldn't be in danger right now. I blame Arthur and Francis because they've been hiding an entire world from us for over a decade, and because of that they're the reasons Mattie was abducted.

                I've been trying to stay positive—vigilant—for Mattie's sake. I've tried to be calm about it all because I didn't want to frighten him, my twin brother, who's already so timid. I don't blame Mattie. He's the kindest, most selfless (naive) person I know. He gives everyone the benefit of the doubt. He would help the Reaper if asked, which is exactly why we need to protect him. It's why we have to find him and put that red-eyed beast to sleep for good. I've been trying to repress my feelings for Mattie's benefit, but now Mattie is gone and I'm royally pissed.

                I grab my shotgun and begin loading it.

                " _I'm sorry_ ," Antonio pants, laying his dark head down on Lovino's lap in front of the fire. Lovino hasn't said a word since Mattie's abduction. While Francis and Antonio were gone, he did nothing but stare mutely into the fire, a mug of cooled cider in his hand.

                " _He was... too fast..._ _We... lost him._ "

                The white wolf: Antonio is talking about the selfish beast who stole my brother.

                "Can't you track him?" Lovino asks. It's the first thing he's said in hours and his voice is uncharacteristically soft. As he speaks, he pulls a blanket over Antonio's prostrate figure and gently pets his curling hair, combing out the wind-swept tangles. Antonio's eyelids droop as he recovers, his body relaxing at the touch.

                "No, they can't," Arthur replies for both wolves. He's busy filling a silver basin with water from a tall, tapered bottle. "It's hard to track in the winter, even harder to track a hunter. If Gilbert crossed the river—"

                "Don't use that beast's name," I snap. "It makes it seem too human."

                I don't miss the way Francis' blue eyes soften in hurt. He retreats into the corner, looking forlorn, but I won't let myself feel guilty. Right now, I want to be angry.

                "As I was saying," Arthur continues, blithely ignoring me, " _they_ can't track the white wolf, but _I_ can."

                Lovino leaves Antonio resting by the fireside and joins Arthur. "What is it?" he asks, staring suspiciously into the face of his own hazel-eyed reflection.

                I, too, inch closer as Arthur explains:

                "It's a scrying bowl. It's a mirror that shows me things happening elsewhere. All I need is a piece of what I'm trying to see." In example, he dangles a square of bloody cloth over the basin and let's it fall in. It sinks to the bottom and the dried blood lifts effortlessly from the fabric, floating to the surface. I've never seen such clear, still water. It's eerie. It doesn't even ripple as Arthur removes the cloth, leaving the beads of blood to hang suspended—the white wolf's blood.

                I frown. "What are you—"

                " _Hush_ ," Arthur says. He closes his eyes to concentrate as he dips two fingers into the basin and begins slowly stirring it, creating a small whirlpool. After a few turns, he starts to mutter in a foreign tongue I don't recognize. It's lyrical; it sounds nice, but it makes Antonio whine. Francis, too, looks uncomfortable and stays in the corner. I guess wolves are afraid of faerie magic, and rightly so. It's scary what a bit of faerie magic can do with a few drops of blood. But Lovino and I are rapt watching the water swirl. Arthur lifts his fingers from the basin, but the water continues to stir of its own accord without losing momentum. Then the hearth fire blows out, and all the candles in the cottage, leaving us in moonlight. It shines on the basin and makes the water look like mercury. Slowly, it changes. Arthur stops speaking and the water stills, revealing—not our reflections, but—a silver picture of the forest.

                "That's Echo Mountain," I say, recognizing its peak.

                " _Hush_!" Arthur elbows me. The water-mirror quivers, briefly disappearing before returning. It shows us a copse of tall, crooked ash trees, two of which cross like a grave-marker; it shows the tree roots snaking along the river rapids, which feed into a valley; it shows a rock ledge jutting out behind the scraggly trees, a white wolf standing atop it. _Standing guard_ , I think.

                "That's it!" I cry. The mirror dissolves, but it doesn't matter, because I know that valley. It'll be a long, hard hike, but if I leave now then I'll be there by daybreak.

                I sling my shotgun over my shoulder and re-button my coat. I grab the door handle.

                "Not tonight, Alfred."

                I glare at Arthur. "Mattie's in danger. I'm not going to wait here for—"

                The door rips itself from my hand and slams shut. In the darkness Arthur's ivy-green eyes seem to glow. " _Not tonight_. It's much too dangerous for you to go alone. One mistake and the white wolf will kill you. You'll take Francis and Antonio with you, but they must rest tonight. You can leave at dawn."

                "And Mattie?" I snap, worried. "What if that beast hurts him while we're here sleeping?"

                "He won't hurt Mathieu," says Francis quietly. "Not intentionally, at least."

                "What if he— _mates_ him," I choke out, feeling sick at the thought.

                Francis exchanges a tired look with Arthur, who lights a candle. It gives my cousin's fey-like freckled face an otherworldly cast. His skin looks waxy pale, his cheekbones hollow, his eyes shadowed from the use of so much magic tonight. "Matthew is going to have to be brave," he says resolutely.

                _Mattie_ , _brave_ —? I sigh in defeat.

_My brother is doomed._

* * *

**MATTHEW**

It's cold, so cold. I'm sitting on the ground in an empty, open-mouthed cave, my legs pulled to my chest and my arms wrapped around myself, trying desperately to preserve my body-heat. My clothes are soaked, but they're all I have to wear. I know that I should remove them, that I'll catch the cold-death if I don't, but if I do my skin will be vulnerable to the elements. Hypothermia or frostbite, those are my options. I've looked for fuel to build a fire, but there's nothing in the cave and everything outside is wet with snow. Nothing will burn without oil. I've searched for a way down the mountainside, too, but it's steep and too cold to be outside for long. At least the walls of the cave block the wind. I sit in the deepest corner, shivering so violently my body aches. If Gilbert doesn't return soon, I think I'll freeze to death.

                "Matthew," he calls, appearing in the cave-mouth. It's dark, but his skin is so white it glows in the moonlight.             

                I don't reply. Instead, I reach out for him and pull him against me, grateful for his warmth. The wolf's body is not like mine; it's bred to withstand the cold. Even stark-naked, the wind and ice and snow don't seem to bother him. I pull his arms around me and hug his middle, pressing my cheek to his chest. He likes this. He thinks it's affectionate, and I'm too cold and tired to correct him. I just need his body-heat.

                "You're shaking," he observes, nosing my tangled hair; smelling it. His hands rub up-and-down my spine, warm and strong.

                "I-I-I—I'm c-c-cold," I say.

                "Are you? _Heh_ ," he chuckles, lifting me easily onto his lap. I curl up against his muscular body, my eyelids fluttering closed. Vaguely, I acknowledge that the healthy drumbeats are his heart. "Humans are so frail," he says, like it's endearing. I feel his hand on my face, cupping my cheek, but I don't open my eyes. I can't. "Matthew." He lifts my head and kisses me, but I barely feel it. My lips are numb. "Matthew?" he repeats, annoyed now. He dips his head and paws at me, wanting attention. His breath is warm on my skin. "Wake up," he says, shaking me. "Are you that tired?"

                _No_ , _come back_! I want to shout when he lays me down on the ground. The shock of cold is unbearable when his body-heat retreats.

                "Rest now. I'll get you something to eat," he says chivalrously, misunderstanding my fatigue.

                " _Don't g-g-go_ ," I whisper, but it's too faint and too late. He doesn't hear me because he's already gone.

* * *

**GILBERT**

Don't take him into the mountains, they said. _Pft_. As if I can't provide for one small human-child. He's safe. He hasn't even tried to escape; that's how docile my Matthew is. It's been a long night and he's tired. Perhaps he's mourning the loss of his family. But once he's rested and fed, he'll feel better. Then I'll mate him and it'll be done. He'll be mine. His family will have no choice but to accept it, and I'll no longer have to compete for Matthew, because everyone will know that he belongs to me. Only me. And I won't let anyone steal him away from me.

                It feels good to have my strength and freedom back. I hunt the forest until the eastern sky begins to lighten. Dawn is approaching, and soon my Matthew will be awake as well. As I hurry back to the cave, I lick my muzzle at the thought of what's to come. I think of my fair violet-eyed boy and how much I've wanted to touch him and taste him and mate him since that night we met in a red field. He seduced me that night with his sweet song and those innocent eyes; the night of the luckless blood-moon. I marked him to claim him and then swore that, no matter what, he would be mine. Today, he finally will be. I've waited long enough.

                I climb the steep mountain slope, my claws digging into the ice, then shake off the wolf as I reach the cave. I enter as a man and wipe the blood from my mouth, carrying my prey in the other hand. It's a good kill, one I'm proud to present to my mate. I spot my Matthew sleeping in the corner. His scent is paler than it was before, which is odd, but at least he's stopped shaking.

                "Matthew," I say, nudging him. "Wake up, I've got food."

                It takes a few more prods before he slowly— _very_ slowly—opens his eyes a sliver. His breathing is laboured, each exhale producing a small puff of white. " _I... can't... eat... that..._ " he says, very slowly and very quietly.

                I lean down, sniffing at him, and nuzzle his cheek with my nose. His skin is cold. "Why not?" I want to know.

                _Why is he rejecting my food-gift_? _It's a generous kill. It's proof that I'm a good hunter_ _and_ _a good provider. It's proof that I can take care of him. What more does a mate want_?

                "It's fresh, still warm. I just caught it," I report proudly.

                " _It's... raw... I... I can't..._ " That's as far as he gets before he goes silent, except for his breathing. His reddened eyelids fall closed.

                I wait. And wait. I nudge him again, but he doesn't stir.

                It's then I start to worry. It's then I start to reconsider the chocolate wolf's warning and wonder if it wasn't just a threat, but true.

                _If you take Matt away into the mountains_ , _he'll die_.

                But no, he can't. I'm here, I'm taking care of him. I've found him shelter and food, so why won't he wake? Are humans really _so_ fragile?

                I don't like the feelings of fear and doubt that spread through me, seeping into my blood and bones. It makes me anxious. "Matthew?" I say, shaking him urgently, but he doesn't move or make a sound. His body is silent; limp as a boned fish and just as cold and glossy pale. I lay my head down on his chest and feel his slow, shallow breaths. I hear his lungs wheeze, and a heartbeat so faint it sounds a world away.

                _Oh_ , _no. No_ , _no_ , _no. What do I do? How do I heal him_? _How do I make him strong again_?

                Injuries aside, I've never been sick in my life.

                "Matthew—? Are you cold?" I touch his face. His soft lips have turned the same pretty violet as his eyes. "It's okay, I'm here," I promise, laying down beside him. I don't know what else to do. "I'll protect you. I'll keep you warm."

                I change back into my wolf-form and drape my heavy body over him, resting my head on his chest. Then I wait. I listen to his weak breaths and faint heartbeats, waiting, waiting, waiting for him to wake up.

* * *

**ANTONIO**

It's nearing noon when I find the crossed ash trees at the riverside, with the rapids flowing and the mountain rising high above it. I spot a slash in the rock-face. An opening—a cave. It's a steep climb, but my claws are long and strong and dig into the ice to hold my weight. The closer I get, the more pungent his scent becomes. The white wolf who stole Matt is close. Briefly I consider howling for aid—Francis and Alfred are nearby, both searching in other directions for the same location—but I don't want to alert the white wolf to my presence. If I can take him by surprise, I might stand a chance fighting him. He's a feral brute and I don't relish a direct confrontation with those alpha teeth, but he's taken my pack-member captive and I won't leave until I've rescued him or died trying.

                The truth is, I'm hoping to reason with the white wolf. I know what he's feeling, because I felt it myself not so long ago. I understand why he's brought Matt here, because, not so long ago, I did the same to Lovi.

                I hope I can convince him to surrender the boy, like Francis convinced me four years ago. I hope I can make him understand the danger that he's put Matt in, and in winter no less! (At least I took Lovi in the spring.) I hope he'll listen to me and realize that clubbing the boy over the head and kidnapping him isn't a good way to claim a human-mate. Humans are delicate and don't respond well to force. Their laws and courtship rituals are quite different from ours. They're very fragile beings that we must be exceptionally careful with. I can't even wrestle with my Lovi for fear of hurting him. (It's adorable when he tries to pin me in a play-fight. He thinks he's strong—the cute little thing! I always let him win, just to hear his laugh.).

                I reach the cave entrance and crouch low, prepared for an attack, but what I find is not a ferocious beast. The white wolf is cuddling the boy, his head lowered and whining. He sees me, but doesn't move. Instead, he looks at me through baleful eyes of such intense sadness that I revert back to my human-form.

                "What's wrong?" I ask, entering the cave. The air is cold up here. I didn't notice it as a wolf and I barely feel it as a man, but this winter chill is enough to kill a human-boy. (A wolf has to be aware of his human-mate's needs for shelter and warmth; Francis taught me that. And my Lovi gets cold so easily.)

                "Gilbert," I recall. "That's your name, isn't it? What happened? Is Matt—" dead "—okay?"

                Reluctantly Gilbert takes his human-form, and says: "No."

                He holds the unconscious boy against his chest, and, without the barrier of his fur, I can see that Matt's face is deathly-white, his lips violet, and his eyelids a dark charcoal-grey.

                "He's cold." Gilbert sounds more fearful with each word. "And he won't wake up."

                "He needs to get back to the village _now_ ," I say, hoping—praying—that Matt will make it before freezing to death. "He has what the human's call the cold-death. He won't wake without heat and medicine. He needs his family," I say fervently. "He can't stay here. Do you understand?"

                Gilbert's gaze is elsewhere. He doesn't move until I step forward, then he holds Matt tighter and growls.

                I stop and kneel down a few feet away, trying to look as nonthreatening as possible. I don't want to fight this reckless alpha wolf, but I will to save my pack-member, my friend.

                "I know what you're feeling," I tell him companionably. "I've felt it, too. My mate—my Lovino," I say proudly, "is the most precious thing to me. It's a privilege to live by his side. It's an honour to be his life-mate, even if nobody else knows. I love him so, so much, and I would gladly die to protect him. My Lovi belongs to me and I belong to him."

                Gilbert understands my ownership of Lovi, but the latter half of my confession confuses him. I can see it on his scowling face.

                "You can't claim a human-mate as a wolf," I explain. "They don't think the way we do, they don't feel what we do. Humans take a long, _long_ time to fall in love—sometimes months, even! Francis pursued his mate for _years_."

                "I don't want to wait years," he snarls impatiently. "Or months, or days. I want my Matthew to love me now."

                I sigh. It's no use explaining human courtship to him right now, he's too preoccupied. "Fine," I relent, "if you really want Matt to love you, then a good start would be taking him back to the village."

                Gilbert tenses and squeezes the boy possessively. A low rumbling emanates from his throat, but he's scared, too. He's worried. I've almost convinced him now, I can see it. I just need to push him a little further to penetrate that steely facade and reach the love-struck pup within.

                "Gilbert," I say gently but sternly, "Matt is dying. He needs to go home."

                I see it the moment it happens. I see in the depths of his red irises when the white wolf's stubborn selfishness gives way to love, and finally the debilitating fear of losing a loved one—a life-mate—ensnares him.

                "Okay," he says. " _I'll_ take him."

                "Fine," I agree, "but we need to go now."

                We're stalking through the forest, both of us in human-form, when we meet Alfred and Francis. The tawny wolf takes no notice of Gilbert as he pads over, sniffing and nudging Matt with his nose, like a she-wolf concerned for a pup. "Oh, no, no," he says, changing shape. He ignores Gilbert's growls and touches Matt's face, his blue eyes going wide and brimming with tears as he spits at Gilbert: " _What have you done_?" Gilbert, at least, has the decency to look ashamed of himself. But he perks up when he hears a shotgun click.

                "Let go of my brother, wolf, so I can kill you."

                Gilbert looks angry; Francis looks worried. I don't want Alfred's threat to rekindle Gilbert's stubborn temper, so I seize the shotgun from the boy's gloved hand. (I hate the feeling of it.)

                "Save it for later," I snarl, bullying him to see reason. "Your brother is dying. He needs to get home as fast as possible, and, like it or not, Gilbert is the fastest one of us."

                Alfred glowers, but I pay him no mind. I rip the fur-lined cape off him. "Here," I say, helping Francis cocoon Matt inside it. "Now run," I tell Gilbert. "Run to the village as fast as you can. We'll be right behind you. And Gilbert!" I call as he starts off. He pauses, listening. "If you change course and try to run away with him, he'll die," I say bluntly, wanting to scare him into obedience.

                He's unhappy, but I see him bob his head in stiff agreement. Then he's gone, leaving the three of us behind.

                I've never seen anyone run so fast.

* * *

**FRANCIS**

I'm panting hard by the time we reach the cottage, my tongue lolling, my muzzle covered in frothy saliva. Exhausted, I change back into a man and wipe the sweat and spit from my face. Antonio is beside me, doubled-over and gasping, but Alfred is nowhere to be seen. His human legs are not strong enough to keep up with us, and though I worry for his well-being in the forest, I'm less worried for him than Mathieu right now. It's daylight, and Alfred is a strong boy with a shotgun. He'll be fine. Mathieu is suffering from the cold-death. I could feel it in his skin and bones when I touched his face, and even now I'm afraid that it might have been too late to save him.

                Gilbert is pacing back-and-forth in agitation, stopping every few turns to stare at the cottage's window. He's still wearing his human-form, I notice.

                " _Well_ —?" I gasp, demanding a report.

                He stops. "I don't know. Your healer," he glares at me, as if Arthur's behaviour is my fault, "won't let me in. He told me to wait here, said he needed privacy to work."

                "And you're actually waiting?" I ask in surprise.

                His glare deepens, creasing his forehead. "I'm waiting."

                "Francis." Antonio taps my shoulder. "I'd like to get back to Lovi, but I'll stay if you want me to." Subtly, he glances at Gilbert.

                I shake my head. "No, go home to your mate, Toni. I'll howl if we need you."

                He nods gratefully. "Send a message if Matt doesn't..." He trails off, reading my face. I can feel tears beading in the corners of my eyes. If Mathieu dies—one of my boys, my sweet, wee pups? I force myself not to think of it. "It'll be okay," Antonio says instead. He squeezes my shoulder in fraternal comfort, then leaves me alone with the wolf responsible for Mathieu's precarious state.

                If Mathieu dies, I'll kill him. Love-struck life-mate or not, I'll kill him.

                We wait in silence until Arthur comes to the back door, wiping his talented hands. "He'll live," he reports, "he just needs to rest, now."

                _So do you_ , I think, noticing the dark shadows encircling my mate's tired eyes. He may be a sullen, anti-social, confrontational man most days, but my life-mate, Arthur, is also the last person to ever think of himself and his own well-being. At least where his family is concerned. (Perhaps that's where Mathieu gets it from?) I don't need to ask to know how worried he is about Mathieu—and Alfred, too. He's a private person whose actions say more than his words do. He's proud and arrogant (that's likely where Alfred gets it from), but I know how much he loves his family, and I know without proof that he's been awake for forty-eight hours sacrificing his own fey-given gifts to protect them, because he thinks it's his duty to do so. I have no doubt that Mathieu is alive because of Arthur's exchange; I can see it in his pale, hollow face.

                I'll make sure he eats and sleeps tonight, because it's _my_ duty to protect _him_.

                "My Matthew will live?" Gilbert says. The relief is plain on his face. "I want to see him."

                "No," says Arthur starkly. He stands in the doorway, thin and frail, looking like a changeling with his freckles and green, green eyes, but the command in his voice makes the white wolf pause. "You are not welcome here, Lone Wolf. You never were. You've done enough harm to the boy who took pity on you, the boy who saved your life more than once. Matthew spared you, but I'm not nearly so kind. Go back to your mountaintop, wolf. Die there alone for all I care. I won't warn you again."

                Arthur turns his back—

                —and Gilbert lunges at him.

                I leap between them and grapple with Gilbert, knocking him aside, furious that he would attack a man who's back is turned. Furious that he would attack _my_ mate.

                "You heard him!" I snarl, showing my teeth. "Be gone!"

                Gilbert throws his head back and laughs humourlessly. "Don't give me orders, _pet_. You're nothing compared to me. You've been living as a pampered human for far too long. Fight me if you dare and Ill prove to you that _I'm the alpha here_!" he yells, shoving me.

                The raw strength in him is staggering. I try to dodge him and attack, but he's too fast. He's a bred fighter. He _likes_ fighting, unlike me. I can feel heat and adrenaline coursing through him; fear and grief and stress manifesting as violence. I can feel tension in his fists as they strike me in the stomach and I buckle, coughing.

                Before I can recover, Gilbert stalks toward the cottage and reaches out to grab Arthur.

                " _No_ , _don't_ —!" I gasp, but before I can rise Gilbert is thrown backwards. He lands on his back in the garden, the wind knocked out of him. In the doorway, Arthur smirks. And that's when I realize he's re-cast the faerie wards with Gilbert's blood to keep the white wolf out.

                Gilbert is angry and confused. " _Let me in_! _I demand it_! _I am the alpha_!" he repeats insistently.

                "No," I say, rising unsteadily to my feet. Gilbert is furious, but I'm smiling now at the baffled look on his face. "You're right, Lone Wolf. I'm not the alpha here, but neither are you. The alpha of this family," I say proudly, "is my mate, Arthur."

                " _Sorcery_!" Gilbert spats.

                "Yes, sorcery," Arthur taunts, belittling the big bad wolf's fear. His soft lips curl devilishly as I join him in the doorway, and he thrusts his hand out like a spell-caster, shouting: " _Fight me if you dare_!"

                We both laugh when Gilbert flinches. Then we leave the defeated wolf where he lies and go inside, closing the door behind us. Closing Gilbert out.


	7. Six

**MATTHEW**

I dream of a snow-white wolf on a snowy mountaintop. I dream so vividly, I can feel the cold in my bones. I shiver, but I'm not afraid, because the wolf is there beside me, guarding me. I know he won't let anything hurt me. I can feel his weight and body-heat press down on me; sometimes it's fur, sometimes it's corded human arms that he wraps securely around me. We lay together beneath a canopy of falling snowflakes that never touch us, and the white wolf— _my_ wolf—kisses my head, then my cheeks, then my lips. I can still feel the cold, but now I can feel something else, too. It's raw and honest and it pulls at me gently. It's safe and warm. I feel it in my chest, in my heart, fending off the cold and keeping me alive.

* * *

I wake slowly, feeling woozy and weak. Al is beside me.

                "Gil—?" I ask, a whisper. "Is he okay?"

                Al tenses in shock, then relaxes. "Yes," he says, placing a hand on my blanketed arm, "he's fine."

                "Where?"

                "I don't know, Mattie. He's gone."

                " _Gone_... _no..._ "

                My voice fades as I drift back to sleep.

* * *

**ALFRED**

 I _wish_ that mongrel was gone.

                "This is getting ridiculous, it's been four days!" I argue, pointing to the back-garden where Gilbert's shadow lurks. "He's going to draw attention! I thought you told him to leave?"

                "I did," Arthur says.

                I wait for him to elaborate, but he doesn't. He's been uncommonly quiet since the white wolf returned with Mattie aloft in his arms.

                Four days ago, Arthur saved Mattie from the brink of death. I arrived back home to be greeted with the news of my twin brother's recovery and felt unbelievably relieved. So did Gilbert, apparently, because he's refused to leave our property, despite Arthur's malignant threats. He paces back-and-forth in the garden and does anxious circuits of the perimeter, like a guard dog. (He's worn down a path through the snow.) Last night, I found his wolf face staring in at Mattie through our bedroom window, his big front paws propped on the outside windowsill, so I closed the drapes. Since then, he's been lying beneath the window, whining a sad, high-pitched cry. Not once has he tried to fight us, or growl at us, or even so much as talk to us as we go about our daily business, leaving and re-entering the cottage. He stays in his wolf-form and doesn't do anything but mope.

                And what's worse is that Mattie keeps asking for him. My brother's foggy mind doesn't seem to recognize the difference between being asleep and being awake, and regardless of who goes to check on him, and regardless of how many times he's already asked, he always, always wants to know where Gilbert is. It's really sad. I don't know why, but my brother sympathizes with the beast who abducted him. He seems to yearn for him. Arthur assures me that it's not any faerie charm, but I can't accept that Mattie actually misses the wolf. Arthur merely shrugs whenever I mention it, blaming it on fever-dreams, but I don't trust his blasé attitude. He's engaged to a wolf. If he's been hiding Francis' secret for eleven years, what other wolfish mysteries might he be hiding? I tried asking Lovino about it too, but he was just as unhelpful and I left the grocery in a foul mood. (Lovino has been unusually quiet about this whole affair, like he knows something I don't but won't tell me.)

                I hate being the only one on the outside of this. Whatever _this_ is.

                Then there's Francis, who hovers like an overprotective parent, as if Mattie is his child—his pup?—and runs into the bedroom if my brother so much as murmurs in his sleep. I overheard him saying to Mattie: " _I'm sorry. I'm so sorry_ , _little pup_. _I should have protected you. I should have taken better care of you_ , _kept better watch. This is all my fault_." I think he was crying, holding Mattie's limp hand between his. Normally I would've gone in to sit with him, but since all of this wolf business began I've barely spoken to him, so I left him alone.

                I need to go somewhere solitary to clear my head, so I grab my shotgun. I feel vulnerable without it, now.

                "Hey, mongrel!" I call, stepping outside. "You out here?"

                The white wolf lift's his head, eyeing my shotgun wearily.

                "I'm going hunting," I say. "Arthur's in the tower," I point to the decrepit silo at the edge of our property that Mattie and I call _the tower_ , "and Francis went to the village. He should be back soon, but until then—" I point at him, then at the cottage "—nothing and nobody gets inside, got it?"

                If he's going to stalk around like a guard dog, I might as well use him as one.

                He sits up diligently—back straight, big wolf ears erect, eyes bright—and bobs his head in confirmation.

                " _Mongrel_ ," I mutter as I walk away, knowing that while I'm gone my brother will be safe.

* * *

**FRANCIS**

That's just sad," says Antonio, indicating the white wolf who's lying beneath Mathieu's window.

                "I know," I sigh, "but he won't leave—"

                "No, it's sad that you're making him stay out here," Antonio interjects. "I mean, look at him, Fran. That's not a feral wolf, that's a defeated dog."

                I frown at Antonio. "I hope you're not suggesting what I think you're suggesting?"

                He shrugs. "Is it really so bad that he wants to see Matt? Like it or not, he's claimed Matt as a life-mate, Fran. You know what that feels like. You know how horrible separation anxiety is, even if you haven't lived as a wolf in over a decade. I know you know, because when Lovi went to visit Feliciano last spring, you brought me sweets every day to cheer me up. You sat with me and listened to me moan about all of the horrible things that could happen to him, and how I should've gone with him, and how much I missed him. I was a mess, remember?"

                Reluctantly, I nod.

                "He's suffering," he says, implying Gilbert. "He knows he did wrong, Fran. His life-mate nearly died because of him. That's not something you forget. He's sorry, trust me."

                "I _do_ trust you, Toni," I say, rather seriously, "because _you_ didn't abduct a member of my family."

                "No," he agrees, "but I _did_ abduct Lovi. Four years ago I was just as wild and aggressive and unreasonable as Gilbert. I didn't understand humans. To be honest, I still don't. I saw Lovi like Gilbert saw Matt and I wanted him to be mine. I felt that desire, that need, that instinctive pull that only life-mates feel. I honestly don't know how in hell you lived for so long with Arthur without claiming him, because the moment I saw Lovi I couldn't stop myself. I didn't care about anything or anyone except him. It was desperate. I thought: _If_ _he's not the one I pledge my life to_ , _then I don't want to live_. So, I followed my instincts and I stole him. I took him deep into the mountains to claim him, and I would've done it, too, but do you remember who stopped me?"

                I roll my eyes.

                "Oh, that's right," he says, punching my shoulder, "it was _you_ , Fran. _You_ convinced me to return Lovi to the village. _You_ taught me about humans, showed me how to live like a human, how to claim Lovi as a human, not a wolf. _You're_ the reason I didn't do a terrible thing that day and hurt my life-mate. The only reason Lovi doesn't hate me is because of you, Fran. Because you gave me a second-chance when I didn't deserve one," he says, green eyes soft and grateful. "You believed that I could change. You did that for me. So, why can't you do it for him?"

                He nods to Gilbert, who does—admittedly—look rather pathetic. He's done a lot of harm to my family, but he _is_ the reason Mathieu is alive. I recall the way he looked in the forest, cradling the boy against his body like something truly precious, trying to keep him warm, and, as much as I try to deny it, I know it wasn't lust, or greed, or selfishness in his blood-red eyes that day. It was love, and fear, and devotion. The truth is, I've never seen an alpha look so utterly helpless.

                "Fine," I grumble, charmed by Antonio's compassion, "I'll think about it."

                And I do think about it. So much, in fact, that later that night when I go to check on Mathieu and he asks for Gilbert, I break. I'm too indulgent, I know. I've become too human, but I square my shoulders and prepare myself for a verbal fight, because I'm going to ask Arthur to remove the faerie ward and let Gilbert inside. I might regret this, but Antonio is right. If he can change—if _I_ can change—then Gilbert deserves the chance to try.

                "Arthur, darling," I say in my most syrupy-sweet voice. "I think... I think it would be best for Mathieu," I lie, "if Gilbert was by his side tonight."

                Arthur stares at me, unblinking. His ivy-green eyes sparkle in the firelight, the golden glow softening his face and effeminizing his features. His taut lips are pressed together and his eyebrows are thoughtfully crooked; his index-finger taps at the writing desk over-and-over, a slow rhythm driving me mad. I try to look nonchalant, but his pensive silence is making me nervous. I wasn't lying when I told Gilbert that Arthur is the alpha of our family, a role I happily relinquished to him long ago. But it _is_ rather unfair when he takes advantage of my wolfish impulses like this. I wait and wait upon the alpha's decision, until finally he says:

                "Okay."

                " _Okay_?" I repeat. I expected to have to fight for that red-eyed _mongrel_ (Alfred's word).

                Arthur smiles and nods. "Yes, okay. If you think it's for the best, then I trust you."

                I'm touched, honestly. It's so rare for Arthur to commend my opinions that I'm always left a little blindsided when he does. But rather than make a scene of it, which I know he hates, I simply press a kiss to his cheek.

                "Francis," he says, and I stop, halfway to the front door. He's quiet for a moment, fighting with the words he wants to say, but decides to say them anyway.

                "It's not a one-sided love, you know, the feelings that life-mates share. We need our wolves, too."

                He doesn't look at me as he starts to take down the faerie wards, but he glances at Mathieu's bedroom door, and even though he hasn't said it, I understand. This whole time he hasn't been fighting Gilbert, he's been testing him. He's been putting up barriers—literally—to test the white wolf's devotion. He didn't heal Gilbert's wounds for Gilbert's sake, just like he didn't send us into the mountains expecting us to kill him. He hasn't scared Gilbert with faerie magic time and again to try and chase him off, but to test his conviction, wanting to know just how far the white wolf will go to remain at Mathieu's side. How much is he willing to suffer? What is he willing to sacrifice? I watch my life-mate as he removes the wards and wordlessly returns to his writing desk, but not before he casts another glance at Mathieu's door and smiles.

                _We need our wolves_ , _too_ , he said.

                That's when I realize that nothing he's done has been for Gilbert at all.

* * *

**GILBERT**

Gilbert!" calls Francis. It's the first time he's used my name.

                I lift my head, but don't move. If he wants to talk to me, he can come to me.

                But he doesn't. He stays where he is in the doorway, bathed in warm firelight. It looks comfortable inside the cottage; a lot less lonely than it is out here. But I'm not moving closer, no matter how cozy and appetizing it smells. I'll stay right here beneath my Matthew's window, guarding him. It's the least I can do after what I've done. I'll stay here until I starve if that's what it takes for him to forgive me. I'll stay here for—

                "Come here," Francis says, stepping aside, holding the cottage door open.

                I stare at him in disbelief. He doesn't formally invite me, but he nods his head in the direction of inside.

                "You've redeemed yourself, Lone—Gilbert," he corrects. "You can watch over Mathieu from _inside_ tonight."

                I'm on my feet and jogging to the door before he's even finished speaking, but before I can enter he grabs my ruff in a tight fist. He leans down, his breath hot against my perked ear, and says in a low, threatening voice:

                "This is your second chance. You don't get a third."

                I swallow, and hesitantly bow my head in gratitude. He releases me and I lunge into the cottage. I pad to my Matthew's bedroom door and butt it with my head a couple of times before Arthur smacks me.

                "Stop that," he scolds. "You'll break the bloody door down. Be very gentle," he adds, before turning the knob, "and don't try to wake him. He's still sick, remember."

                I slip into the dark bedroom and I see him, my Matthew. He's sleeping soundly beneath several blankets and tucked in with pillows and a hot-water bottle, and he looks so small and so sweet and so, so beautiful, all rosy-cheeked again with a pale but _human-pale_ pallor. I stop in my tracks. For a moment I just look at him; that's all I want to do. I can hear his rhythmic breaths and feel his faint body-heat and smell his sweet, clean scent. And suddenly a weight is lifted and relief floods me. It's followed by guilt and regret and the harsh knowledge that I did something wrong, but right now it's enough to know that he's okay. My Matthew is okay.

                Gently, I leap onto the bed and lay down beside him, resting my head on his chest like before. His heartbeat is slow and steady. Not distant. Not dying. Across the room, Alfred groans and blinks groggily. When he sees me, I tense and lift my head, prepared for a fight, but the blue-eyed boy merely grumbles " _whatever_ " and falls back to sleep. I relax and realize that my Matthew is now wearing a faint smile in slumber—because of me? I'm very pleased by the thought, true or not, and show my affection by nuzzling his neck, burying my nose in his hair. Then, impulsively, I  lick his cheek, wanting to taste his skin. I feel giddy, like I'm a wee pup again, which is odd but not unpleasant. It's one of many new, confusing feelings that's taken a hold of me abruptly. Then I lay my head down just below his and fall effortlessly asleep.

                I sleep for a long time, feeling safe and comfortable and unthreatened for the first time in a long time, feeling peaceful like I never have. When I finally do wake, sixteen hours have passed and I've inadvertently shifted back into my human-form. That's never happened before. I must have been deep asleep and felt very safe. I blink drowsily and realize that Matthew is looking down at me through the most beautiful eyes I've ever seen. For a moment I'm worried about how he'll react, but he's not scared and he's not upset.

                He's smiling.


	8. Seven

**ARTHUR**

Matthew's health has significantly improved in the five days since he caught the cold-death on a mountaintop, but he's still weak. Hypothermia quickly became pneumonia, which settled in his lungs before I could doctor it, and now all I can do is wait for his body to fight it naturally. His life is no longer in danger, but the illness will leave its scar, making an already timid boy physically weak as well. And yet he sleeps soundly. No longer does he call-out or suffer nightmares, and it's because of the white wolf lying on the floor in front of the bed. Alfred doesn't believe it, and Francis calls it wishful thinking, but I know it's true. They don't have to believe it or accept it. They can mock me if they like, but it doesn't change the fact that Matthew is bound to Gilbert now, for better or worse, just like I'm bound to Francis. It's not as physical as the wolves' desire to be with us, but the instinct is just as strong. Call it intuition or fate or a faerie enchantment, it doesn't matter because it won't change the feeling and it won't make it go away.

                I look at sleeping Matthew and the white wolf guarding him and I know in my heart that my poor, sweet little cousin is just as fucked as I am. 

* * *

 

**MATTHEW**

As soon as I wake, Gilbert sits up and rests his head on the edge of the bed, looking up at me through blood-red eyes that look less bloodthirsty every day. I smile sleepily at him, and he becomes a man sitting with his chin resting on his folded arms. His stare is so intense that it used to make me uncomfortable, but I'm slowly becoming desensitized to it. I'm finally starting to understand it. He's an intense person, but not an uncaring one. He just doesn't understand the concept of personal boundaries.

                "You're taking a really, _really_ long time to heal," he accuses me. "It's already been six days."

                "It's _only_ been six days," I correct. "I'm not as strong as you, Gilbert."

                He's quiet for a minute. He looks mean, but he's not. I know this when he says: "I'm sorry." He says it every day.

                "I know," I reply.

                "Are you cold? Are you hungry?" he asks, red eyes searching my face. His fingers flex, wanting to touch me, but he refrains. Instead his nostrils gently flare, gauging my health by scent. (He hasn't touched me since I awoke with him in my bed, and I'm a little disappointed he hasn't. His body is so warm.) "Do you need medicine?" he offers, his nose wrinkling in anticipation.

                "No," I dismiss, still groggy. I can feel myself falling back to sleep.

                "Matthew?"

                "It's okay," I promise as my eyelids fall closed. "I'm just tired. I'm just going to... sleep..."

                The last thing I feel is the comforting weight of heavy wool blankets being pulled up and tucked around me.

* * *

It's not right," Al says unsupportively. He's sitting on the edge of my bed, his arms crossed sulkily. Gilbert is outside. "He nearly killed you, Mattie."

                "It was an accident," I reply. "He's the one who saved me, too."

                Al rolls his jewel-blue eyes. "Stop making excuses for him," he says. "How can you be so comfortable around him after what he's done? He attacked you—twice! Oh, I know he's devoted to you in some ritualistic wolf way, but it's not healthy. He's a bully, Mattie. He's _mean_."

                "He's not..." I say, but without much conviction, because I know that Al is right. I know Gilbert is no different from all of the other men who have pursued me and tried to claim me. He's just the only one who succeeded. ( _Has he succeeded_?) I know that, from Al's perspective—a human perspective—Gilbert's been a horrible bully, abusive toward my family and friends (and me, if I'm being honest). But something inside me wants to forgive him for it and believe that he can change. Something inside me keeps making excuses. "He's not mean," I say, because I really don't think he is. He's selfish and impulsive and overprotective, and he doesn't like what he doesn't know, but he's not a bad person. "He just doesn't understand human culture."

                "That's a poor excuse," Al criticizes.

                "Why?" I counter. "He's _not_ human, he's a wolf. Francis said—"

                " _Francis_ is a wolf," Al interrupts, discrediting Francis' advice on principle. "And Arthur is his _mate_. Nothing they tell you is unbiased, Mattie. Whatever you feel for Gilbert isn't real. It's just faerie magic, just an enchantment."

                _What I feel for Gilbert—_?

                _What_ do _I feel for Gilbert_?

                "It's not real," Al repeats, gentler now. He pats my leg. "No matter how you feel, you didn't choose this, right? He chose it for you."

                I consider his words, then sigh. He's right. Al is right. I didn't choose Gilbert; he chose me. I shouldn't feel so attached to him. I shouldn't make excuses for him. I shouldn't forgive him. My head knows these things, but my heart is fighting it. If Gilbert really is bad for me, then why do I feel so connected to him? Is it really a faerie enchantment? Could it really just be a manipulation, or is it something else? Something more? Gilbert makes me so nervous. He still surprises me, still confuses me, still makes me flinch sometimes with his wolfishness, but I'm never afraid of him. The truth is, I feel safe and loved and content when Gilbert is with me. Call it shallow, but it feels kind of good being loved by someone who hates everyone else. It makes me feel special. More than anything, I don't want to admit that any of it might be false.

                "Just... be careful," Al advises. "I know he loves you, Mattie... or, he _thinks_ he does anyway, but that doesn't mean he won't hurt you."

                I nod. Right now, it's all I can do.

                A moment later, Gilbert trots in. He's in human-form, but still moves like a wolf. He eyes Al for a moment, as if he can sense our unease, then kneels at my bedside. "Look," he says, presenting me with a cardinal's feather as red as his eyes. He twirls it between his fingers, very pleased with himself. I can't help but smile at this playful side of him, especially when he sticks the feather in my hair and grins.

                Al shakes his head and leaves without a word.

* * *

**GILBERT**

Teach me how to claim Matthew as a human," I say.

                Francis chokes on a tankard of ale and gapes at me. " _Pardon_?"

                It's been nearly a fortnight and Matthew is finally strong enough to leave bed. He still coughs, but his colour has returned and he's not as tired as he's been. We all keep subtle watch of him as he moves about the cottage, falling back into his old routine. I follow him everywhere, afraid to let him out of my sight. Once or twice he's snapped at me; as much as Matthew ever _snaps_. But I won't be given orders and I won't be sent away. A horrible anxiety clutches me when he's out of sight, especially now that I know how fragile he is. It baffles me how humans can live so contentedly knowing that they aren't the strongest beings in the forest. It says much about their arrogance that they don't live in constant fear, like prey. I say this to Matthew, but he merely laughs at me. _Laughs at me_! This is something the others do quite often and I hate it. I don't like being laughed at and I convey this to Matthew by showing my teeth. He stops immediately and apologizes, like a good mate, but the relief I feel is hollow. Something is wrong. Something has been wrong for weeks, now. I don't feel powerful when he looks at me in fear. Now I feel uneasy. I feel—guilty. I keep trying to claim Matthew as mine, but it isn't working. He smiles at me, but still shies away from my touch. I don't like that, because I like _his_ touch so very much. I want him to want me the way I want him, but I'm getting impatient. What was it Antonio said? _Humans take a long time to accept a mate_. I'm beginning to think that he's right. It's been nearly two moon-cycles already. I'm starting to worry that Matthew will never accept me. I'm starting to wonder if, perhaps, I'm going about this claiming business all wrong.

                _You can't claim Matthew as a wolf_. Antonio said that, too.

                "Teach me how to claim Matthew as a human," I say sharply, annoyed that I've had to repeat myself.

                Francis sets the tankard aside. "You want to court him?" he asks uneasily.

                "Yes, court," I nod, using his word. "That's what I want."

                He eyes me skeptically. He's got eyes bluer than cornflowers. He studies me with them, then asks: "Are you sure? You'll have to sacrifice all of your wolfishness to do it, and then never revert back to your old ways or risk losing Mathieu. I won't pretend I don't doubt you can do that, Lone Wolf."

                I glower. He hasn't called me _Lone Wolf_ in a while, and part of me feels stung by it, like he's trying to remind me of what I am. _Was_. "I'll do it," I say in determination, "for Matthew."

                He doesn't believe me. "Why?" he challenges.

                I don't need time to consider my reply. I've known the answer for a while:

                "Because I have not belonged for too long."

                He's surprised, but not satisfied. "But why Mathieu?" he prompts invasively. He's so protective of the human youths, you'd think they were his own pups. "Why did you choose him? Is it because he's pretty?" he guesses, daring me to admit to pride. "Is it because he's timid and unlikely to ever fight back? Is it because he saved your life?"

                I clench my teeth and fists. I don't like this cornered feeling of being interrogated. It's my business why I love Matthew, not his. It's my heart's choice. But if it'll put his mind at ease—if it'll make him stop mistrusting me—I'll tell him.

                "I chose Matthew because he has a kind heart," I say. "I want to possess it and I want to guard it. It doesn't make sense to me either," I add, noting his consternation, "but I haven't lived a peaceful life until now, and peace is something I want. It's something I think he can give me. It's a selfish reason, I know. But there's selflessness in him that I need, and there's strength in me that he needs. Tell me I'm wrong," I challenge, then wait for him to speak, but he doesn't. He stays silent. "I chose Matthew because he and I are not as unbalanced a pair as you think. I chose him because I fell in love with his kind heart the moment I saw it reflected in his eyes."

                Francis is quiet for a really long time, but I don't intend to break the heavy silence. I've said my piece, and I won't say it again. Not ever. I cross my arms defensively and wait, outlasting his stubbornness.

                Finally, he surrenders. "Fine," he groans. "I'll teach you how to be a human. But I won't force Mathieu into a union he doesn't want. I won't help you bully or manipulate him, understand? If he rejects you after you've courted him as a human, then you'll accept it and leave quietly and never return. That's my condition. Do you agree to it, Lone Wolf?"

                "It's Gilbert," I say sternly. "My name is Gilbert. And yes, I agree."

                Francis nods stiffly. Then his shoulders sag and he runs a hand thoughtfully through his long hair. "I haven't lived as a wolf in over a decade," he says. It's true; his habits are so _human_. Even the way he eyes me, like we're not the same creature at our cores, proves he might be underequipped to help me. He scrunches his nose and makes a face at me. "You're not going to be an easy convert," he says, making a decision. "I think I need to recruit some help."

* * *

The first step to becoming more human," Antonio lectures, his index-finger raised, "is to stop spending so much time as a wolf."

                I frown, but Francis agrees.

                "He's right, Gilbert. You spend more time in your wolf-form than in your human-form. That needs to change. In fact, it needs to stop. We only take our wolf-forms when absolutely necessary. It's too dangerous to live in a human village if you're shifting back-and-forth all the time. And humans don't mate wolves," he adds, as if I don't know that.

                "Don't pout," Antonio scolds. "It's not actually that hard, Gil. Not if you're really serious about learning to be a human-mate."

                I don't want either of them to doubt me, but I'm skeptical. Live only in my weaker human-form—? All the time—? Can I really do that? Can I really ignore the pull of the wolf?

                _For Matthew_ , _yes_ , _I can._

                "Fine," I growl unhappily. "What else?"

                "Second," Antonio raises another ochre finger, "is to win over Matthew's family. Boys like Matthew and Lovi are very close to their families and prefer not to leave them. Instead of Lovi coming away with me, I was adopted into his family and chose to stay here. Do you see? You're not just mating Matthew, Gil. You're mating his family, too."

                I frown, horrified by the suggestion. Mate his family? "Do I... have to?" I reluctantly ask.

                Francis covers his mouth to hide a chuckle. "Not _literally_ , Gilbert. What Toni means is that Matthew's family will become your family, too. They'll become your brothers, your pack," he explains in a less ambiguous way.

                _Oh_ , _good_ , I think, relieved until I remember that Francis is a member of Matthew's family, too.

                "Does that mean you?" I ask him. I'm curious about his reply. I try to read his true thoughts in his eyes, but he's reticent.

                "Yes," he says formally. "I'll be your in-law according to human-law, and your brother by pack-law. And since my mate is the alpha," he adds, eyeing me wearily, "that means he and I are superior in the pack hierarchy. Can you accept that?"

                Oh, he's sneaky, this blue-eyed pet. He's learnt to talk in circles, like a human. He's learnt riddles from his mate, the fey-child, word-puzzles to trap me. Oh yes, Francis has become very human, indeed.

                I pause, and he and Antonio both see it. They're both smaller than me, physically weaker than me. If we lived together in the wilderness, I would be the alpha wolf without question and both of them know it. It's only the human-laws that elevate Francis above me. Human-law, which values strength less than other tricks. I clench my teeth and my fists as I bow my head inch-by-inch. _Matthew_ , _it's all for my Matthew_. Submitting to the pack leaders is the only way I can be together with Matthew, so I'll do it. It hurts. It goes against every screaming nerve in my body, and I start to shake as I fight the instinct to assert my dominance, but I don't. I resist it. I bow my head and I nod in submission, and I say:

                "Yes, I accept."

                "Told you," Antonio says. He slaps Francis companionably on the back.

                Francis looks defeated. He hoped that I would refuse, I realize. Because then he would have a reason—a good reason—to chase me off. He's still unhappy about me claiming his adopted pup as my mate.

                "I told you he could do it," Antonio repeats cheerfully. "He's serious about this, Fran. Aren't you?" he looks at me, smiling. His eyes are green, but not green like Arthur's. Arthur's are witch-green; Antonio's are the colour of fresh spring buds. There's something youthful in them, even though he's an adult. When I don't reply, he's not upset. He's very good-humoured, this wolf. He merely shrugs and claps me on the back like he had done with Francis. "Don't worry, it gets easier from here. We'll make a human of you yet, Gil."

                "Why do you keep calling me that?" I ask, shaking off his touch.

                "Gil? It's a nickname," Antonio says. He points to himself, then to Francis, then to me, saying consecutively: "Toni. Fran. Gil. Humans use nicknames and pet-names to show familiarity and affection for each other."

                "Okay... I guess," I shrug, secretly wondering why anyone needs more than one name. Human interactions are unnecessarily confusing. "Do life-mates have names for each other, too?" I wonder aloud.

                "Yes," Francis nods. "Terms-of-endearment are a nice way to let your lover—uh, your _mate_ ," he rephrases, "know that he's special to you. Most couples have pet-names and sweet words for each other."

                "Except for Arthur," Antonio adds.

                "Uh, yes," Francis admits. "Arthur's not... I mean, he's never been very, uh... never-mind."

                "Lovi is _my little tomato_ ," Antonio says in example, redirecting the conversation.

                I blink, confused. "Is that a common pet-name?"

                "No," Francis chuckles. "It's special for Lovino because Toni is the only one who calls him by it. If you value your life," he adds, mock-serious, "I don't suggest repeating any of Antonio's pet-names to Lovino."

                " _No_ ," Antonio growls, and it's suddenly so dark and menacing, so aggressive, so _possessive_ , that I take a step back. It's easy to believe Francis' flawless human facade, but Antonio is much less schooled. As much as he tries, he's still too wild to blend in with the humans. He's still too wolfish to understand human society. He abides by the law, he lives as a human, but he's still a wolf at heart. This is something I understand, and it's something I respect. So, when he snarls: " _Lovino is mine_!" I bob my head in a show of acceptance, nonverbally promising not to steal his life-mate. He bristles a little, then relaxes.

                "If you want to endear yourself to Mathieu," Francis continues, ignoring the interruption, "then you should choose a pet-name for him that's exclusive to you; something no one else calls him by; something meaningful to you."

                "Like _tomato_?" I criticize Antonio, who shrugs.

                Francis rolls his eyes. "Just think about it. It doesn't have to be rushed. In fact, it's better if it's not. Just think about what Mathieu means to you and the words will follow."

                Words? Damn. I've never been good with words.

* * *

Mattie, wait!" I call, hurrying to catch him. He's holding a basket and is about to walk into the village for food.

                He smiles gently at me, but says: "Please don't call me that. Only Al calls me Mattie."

                I humph in annoyance at the taken pet-name. It's impossible trying to think of something nobody else calls him. _Matthew_ is what everyone calls him, so it's not special; _Matt_ is what his friends call him; and _Mattie_ is what his brother calls him. I've tried to think of food-words, like Antonio uses, but no food seems fitting to describe Matthew; and Francis' terms-of-endearment are too commonplace. (Besides, I don't want to use the same words that Francis favours in the same household. His tongue is better at saying them then mine and I don't want to compete like that.) I sigh in defeat. _This is too hard_! Instead, I focus on Matthew's outing.

                I snatch the basket from him, and say: "I'll go with you."

                Matthew flinches.

                Over the boy's head, I see Francis and Antonio spying from the garden, critiquing me. Antonio has his head planted in a hand, and Francis is shaking his head.

                "Uh, I mean..." I glance between them and Matthew. "May I accompany you?" I rephrase, stiffly bowing my head a fraction.

                "O-oh, uh... of course, if you want to," Matthew permits. He takes the basket back, appeasing me with a shy smile, and then sets off at a leisurely pace.

                I cast a glance back over-the-shoulder for feedback. Francis wobbles his hand in a so-so fashion, not entirely convinced of my good manners, but Antonio gives me a smile and a double thumbs-up in support.

                I catch up to Matthew easily, my legs longer and stronger than his, and then I match my pace to his. It's quiet as we stroll, but Matthew's company is always quiet. Quiet, but never unpleasant. It's peaceful. I'm always the one to initiate conversation, but right now I have nothing to say. My mind is thinking of _words_ as my eyes scan the roadside, and it's not until Matthew chuckles that I know he's been watching me.

                "What?" I ask defensively.

                Matthew shakes his head. "It's nothing, never-mind."

                I stare unyieldingly at him until he tells.

                "It's just... you're mouthing words without sound. Naming things," he clarifies. Then he points to the trees, the flowers, the cloud-shapes—and yes, I realize, I've been naming them silently, trying to find a word to fit Matthew.

                " _Gods damned pets_ ," I mutter, blaming Francis and Antonio's advice.

                "Sorry?"

                "Nothing," I say.

                As we reach the village-proper, Matthew closes the distance between us so that we're nearly touching as we walk. At first I think it's affectionate and I'm pleased that he wants to stay so close to me in public. The closer he is to me, the farther he is from anyone else. I start to lean toward him, too, but then I realize he just wants to speak to me without being overheard.

                "Gilbert," he says, "please stop glaring and growling, you're making people nervous."

                "Good," I reply, resisting the urge to fold my arm around him. I need to do something to show the villagers that he's mine, since they can't see the mark I placed on his neck—not while he's wearing that red cape. "I want them to stop staring at you," I justify.

                Matthew shakes his head. "It's you they're staring at, not me," he insists. But he's wrong (mostly).

                I can see the leering eyes of villagers following his movements, plastered to places they shouldn't be. I can hear their whispers and chuckles that insult the boy's honour. And I can feel knots of tension in these men who look at Matthew with lust, and then at me with disdain. They don't know what I am. If they did, they wouldn't glare with fighting eyes. My lips twitch, wanting to pull back to expose my teeth, and a growl rolls up my throat.

                "Gilbert," Matthew whispers worriedly, "please?"

                Reluctantly, I swallow the growl and produce a tight-lipped scowl instead. It's the most I'm willing to yield. I don't know or like these greedy people, and they don't like me. Matthew thinks the villagers are weary of me because I'm a stranger, but it's got less to do with my status as a newcomer than with his marital eligibility. I can smell mating-lust in their pungent pheromones, especially the young ones, and I know which ones would claim my Matthew if given the chance. He's just too dense to notice.

                "Why would anyone be staring at _me_?" he asks so innocently it hurts.

                "Because you're beautiful," I say bluntly, a pinch of irritation in my tone, "and you're acting like an omega."

                Matthew frowns in puzzlement, but by then we've reached our destination: the grocers. I can see Antonio's mate inside, the one who smells of white roses and garden herbs.

                "Oh, Gilbert," says Matthew, hurrying to block my entry. "Would you mind waiting out here for me? It's just, I'd like to talk to Lovino alone. Is that okay?" he adds nervously (like a good mate; an _omega_ mate).

                I'm stung—what have I done to deserve banishment?—but I nod stiffly, generously, I think, and am rewarded with a smile.

                "I'll be quick," he promises, then pauses as the door bells jingle. " _Please_ behave."

* * *

**MATTHEW**

Morning, Matt," Lovino says without looking. His back is turned, but the bells toll my arrival. I set the basket on the countertop and remove the cloth-wrapped pastries from inside. Lovino lifts an eyebrow, nostrils drinking in the sweet scent of baked apples. "Arthur didn't bake it, did he?" he asks wearily.

                "No, I did... with Francis' guidance," I add, because Francis' patisserie skills are legendary. Arthur's are not. "Is Antonio here?"

                "He went to see Francis. I'm surprised you didn't cross paths," Lovino says, accepting the pastries. "Why?"

                "I never thanked him for coming to my rescue," I tell the chequered cloth, blushing in embarrassment. "He didn't have to—"

                "Of course he did," Lovino interrupts. "He's your friend, Matt. That's what friends do—they rescue each other from wolves who abduct them."

                "I wanted to apologize for the trouble," I admit, indicating the pastries.

                "Keep buying our produce and baking sweets and I'm sure he'll find it in his stone-cold heart to forgive you," he says sarcastically, grinning in amusement, the way one might forgive a child's foolish error. (It's easy to forget that Lovino is actually four years my senior. He certainly doesn't act—or look—like it.) "You're a part of the _pack_ , Matt," he explains, "you always have been, and Toni would no sooner let something bad happen to you than me or Francis or even Al. Arthur is... questionable," he considers. "I mean, he _probably_ feels the same way about Arthur, it's just that he really dislikes faerie magic. He's terrified of it—they all are. Even Francis. But it doesn't matter. In _their_ minds," he says, implying the wolves, "we're one big family, blood-ties or not. A family of misfits, maybe, but wolves are fiercely protective of their packs. And in a village like this one? Well, Francis isn't the only one who looks out for you, Matt.

                "And speaking of..." Lovino nods to the window display, where many jars of strawberry preservatives beckon hungry passers-by. On the other side, Gilbert is leaning against the glass, arms crossed and shoulders stiff. "Walking the new dog, are you?" he jests.

                I sigh. "He follows me everywhere."

                "Yes," he replies, completely unsurprised, "they do that. Toni calls it _separation anxiety_ , though I suspect it's plain paranoia in your case. Toni was like that, too, before he and I—" He stops abruptly and goes tomato-red. "Before I became his mate," he rephrases, trusting my discretion.

                "You _are_ his mate then?" I ask, curiosity gnawing at me.

                He nods.

                It's then that a silent agreement passes between us, both promising that this conversation will not leave the grocers. Perhaps that's why I pull back my red cape to reveal my neck, eager to ask: "Do you have... this?" I can tell by his immediate reaction that he doesn't have a bite mark. Or, at least not one like mine. His gold-ringed eyes widen in reflex and he sucks in a breath, shocked by what I've shared. "Is it bad?" I worry, feeling self-conscious.

                "It's big," he supplies awkwardly. "And thorough. A wolf doesn't usually use all his teeth to leave a mark, just his canines. It's really only meant to be a love-bite, but you've got an imprint of his whole mouth on you. It looks like he took a bite out of you, Matt. Were you struggling at the time?"

                I shake my head, remembering the immobilizing fear I felt while pinned beneath the white wolf.

                "I bet it hurt," he says, nose scrunched in fleeting sympathy, "but it'll fade. That bruise will disappear and, if you're lucky, only the canine imprints will scar."

                "Like yours?" I venture, detecting a personal degree of knowledge.

                Lovino hesitates, then beckons me closer. He threads a hand through his dark locks, pushing them back to reveal the shell of his ear. Behind it, faintly, where the curve of his skull and jawbone meet, I can barely see a white scar on his caramel skin; just four small indents close together that looks more like a permanent kiss than a bite. "Like mine," he confirms, letting his hair fall back down.

                "It's so subtle," I note, a little jealous.

                "Oh, Arthur's is _much_ subtler," he says, a wicked grin on his face. "If you ever want to see him blush, just ask him where Francis' mark is."

                I snort, then quickly cover my mouth. "Oh, I will," I promise, while vowing never to tell Al. (Arthur would be mortified Lovino had told _me_ , but Al would broadcast the secret like a herald.) "But doesn't that defeat the purpose?" I ask, shaking thoughts of my cousin's nether-regions from my mind. "Isn't a claiming mark supposed to be visible?"

                "In a traditional pack, yes," Lovino says. "But we're hardly a traditional pack. For one thing, you, Arthur, and I aren't wolves, and we can't go walking around the village with great enflamed bite marks on our necks"—he tugs on my cape—"without people asking questions. A claiming mark is a ritual of the wild. This," he taps his mark, "was given in consent _after_ Toni and I became mates. So was Arthur's. It wasn't intended as a claiming mark in the traditional sense, or a mark to intimidate rivals. It's not intended to be seen at all. It's just for us. Toni knows it's there and that's all that matters. The desire to mark is really just proof that Toni and Francis are still wolves at heart."

                "A love-bite," I repeat his words.

                He nods. Then says: "But yours isn't. Yours is a big stamp of ownership."

                Again, I sigh. I was afraid of that. "Gilbert _is_ a bit... intense," I admit.

                "It's because he was an alpha," Lovino scoffs, blaming Gilbert's possessiveness on instinct. "See how he holds his weight, and how big he is? See how many scars he has? That's all from fighting—combat trials for leadership. Toni says alphas are dangerous because they think everything belongs to them, because at one point everything in the pack _did_ belong to them. They're self-entitled bastards if you ask me. Most Lone Wolfs you meet are fallen alphas. Not that I've met any except for yours," he shrugs.

                "He's not _mine_ ," I argue futilely.

                Lovino cocks an eyebrow, then says: "No, you're right, he's not yours. You're _his_ ," he emphasizes. "That's what that mark on your neck means. It means you're his property, his mate. The omega to his alpha."

                " _Omega_ ," I repeat in confusion. "That's exactly what he called me earlier. What does it mean?"

                Lovino pauses for a moment in disbelief, then he smiles a smile flavoured with amused pity. "Did he actually call you that?"

                "Yes," I say, feeling suspiciously like the punch-line of a joke. "Why? What does it mean?"

                "Oh, dear, sweet Matthew," he says, patting my hand condescendingly. "I'm afraid it means you're going to have to toughen-up if you ever want that wolf to treat you as an equal. It means he sees you as his inferior, as lesser in the pack hierarchy. It means you're weak and unthreatening and submissive. Wolves really like that, it makes them feel stronger. You being an omega means that he, as the alpha, is the one in charge of your relationship and all of your decisions. It means that you're beneath him— _literally._ It means," he grins, squeezing my hand in mock-support, "that you're _literally_ his bitch."

* * *

**GILBERT**

_I'M WHAT_?"

                I flinch at Matthew's sudden shriek and duck my head into the grocers. "Matthew?" I ask, glancing between he and Antonio's mate, who's head is buried in his arms on the countertop, laughing. When Matthew turns to look at me, the shock is apparent on his face and the colour is high in his cheeks. "Are you okay?"

                "I, uh—yes," he says, blushing redder. "I just—never-mind, let's go."

                "Wait, here." Lovino wipes tears from his eyes with one hand, still chuckling, while waving ambiguously at a sack of potatoes with the other. A peace-offering.

                I take the sack before Matthew can and hoist it over my shoulder, showing how strong I am. I'm much bigger and stronger than either of them. I smile, expecting praise—or thanks, at least—but Lovino merely covers his mouth with his hands, snorting, and Matthew looks unsettled.

                "Thank-you," he says tersely to Lovino as we exit.

                " _Good luck_!" Lovino shouts in farewell.

* * *

Later, we sit down to supper. I've finally been granted a place at the table on three conditions:

                First, I have to promise to use utensils and not my hands or tongue. Second, I'm not to complain about the quality, even though I'm a hunter— _an alpha_!—and should get the best cuts of everything. And third, I'm not allowed to steal food from anyone else's bowl, even though I'm the biggest and deserve the largest share. I grudgingly agree to these rules—including the one where I have to wear a shirt at the table or I won't get served—and don't cause nearly as much trouble as Antonio, who growls guardedly when anyone's hand passes too close to his bowl. But even so, it's me Arthur pierces with that disdainful green stare when he tactlessly says:

                "Matthew, your dog needs a bath."

                Matthew and I both bristle in insult. " _He's not_ my _dog_!" he says, at the same time I argue: " _I'm_ not _a dog_!"

                Unfortunately, the alpha's order is repeated by Alfred and then Francis. _Traitor_ , I think, glaring at the latter. And so it is that, after the meal, I'm unfairly bullied into a wooden washtub with pewter fastenings, and assaulted with soap and water and perfumed oil that smells of pine-needles. I growl and groan and try to dodge the attention, until Antonio ducks down and whispers to me:

                "I know it's horrible. It's literally the worst thing in the world," he sympathizes, "but it's part of being human. And if you let them clean you, you might be invited into bed. My Lovi won't let me in his bed unless I'm clean. It's unfair, I know," he agrees, "but it's worth it to sleep beside your mate, trust me."

                Reluctantly, I cede to his expertise. I sit perfectly still, shivering only a little while Matthew and Arthur scrub my skin raw. When they're finished, I don't smell like me anymore.

                "That's better," Arthur sighs, rolling down his sleeves.

                In retaliation, I shake my head and spray him with water. He curses and chucks an armful of clean clothes at me: Alfred's hand-me-downs, which are a couple inches too short in the sleeves and legs, but comfortable in the chest.

                Matthew is a little more considerate. Once I'm dressed, he asks: "Isn't that better?"

                I can feel a growl in my throat, but then I catch Antonio's eye and swallow it. Instead, I nod.

                "What a martyr you are," says Francis sarcastically, draping a towel over my head and ruffling it.

                I swipe at him blindly.

                Antonio says: "Don't listen to him, Gil. He's an anomaly who actually _likes_ baths."

                Francis tuts in superiority. "Yes, well, do forgive me for adopting a cleaner lifestyle. Mock it if you want," he chastises Antonio's snickers, "but the proof is self-evident. I haven't had fleas in four years."

                I gape at him in awe. " _Seriously_?"

                Antonio crosses his arms, muttering: "I don't believe it, you're lying."

                "It's true," Francis brags.

                "And _I_ can't believe this is a conversation they're actually having," Alfred says to Matthew, who sits down in the chair behind me. He readjusts the towel on my head and rubs it more gently against my—admittedly sensitive—scalp, drying my hair. It feels nice. Then, when he removes the towel and starts to run his tentative hands through my hair, finger-combing it and scratching my head slow and indulgent, it feels so good, in fact, that I lose the thread of conversation and lean back against his knees. I close my eyes.

                The next thing I know, the room is empty except for Matthew and I, and I realize I'd fallen into a sleepy daze.

                "Welcome back," Matthew teases softly. I'm sitting on the floor beside his chair, my cheek resting on his leg. "You must be awfully tired," he says as he pets my dried head. How long has he been doing it for? I don't know, but it feels wonderful. I relax and close my eyes again, listening to his melodic voice. This is the touch I've yearned for. "Al wanted to draw on you with coal, but that would've defeated the purpose of the bath, so I told him no. He's gone out, now. And Francis and Arthur have gone to bed—which is where I think you should go," he adds. "You look exhausted. You're not even listening to me, are you? Gilbert?"

                " _Hmm_?" I murmur.

                I feel so lazy, I don't want to move— _what was in that bathwater_ , _a sleeping potion_?—but I'm forced to when Matthew stands.

                "Come on," he says, offering me his hand.

                I take it and let him guide me into his shared bedroom, where I collapse in a heap on the floor. He leaves to prepare for bed, then returns and crawls in. I'm already half-asleep when he taps my shoulder, but I manage to lift my head. When I do, I'm greeted with a novel sight: Matthew has turned down the bed covers for me and is waiting for me to accept the unvoiced offer. In a sweet, shy voice, he says:

                "If you want to..."

                I want to. I really, really want to.

                As I climb beneath the bed-sheets beside him, nothing but a pillowed gap between our bodies, I can't help thinking that suffering through bath trauma was worth it.

                _That bastard_ , _Antonio_ , _was right_!

                When I awake in the morning, the pillow is on the floor and Matthew is asleep in my arms.

                I've never felt so good, and it's at that moment I know for certain:

                _I can do this. I can be human. For Matthew._


	9. Eight

**GILBERT**

I sit in the corner by the door, as far as possible from the machine Arthur has bewitched to play music. I don't like the way his hands—skinny hands stained and smelling of herbs and minerals—bring dead things to life, even if it's only a music-player. I dislike the way it sings without human fingers to strike it. It's called a harpsichord, Matthew tells me, and it's been in Arthur's family for six generations. It's an oblong instrument with four curving legs and three rows of black-and-white teeth— _keys_ —that produce a high-pitched vibration when the strings inside are plucked. That's what Matthew says, but I don't like mechanics that I can't see with my own eyes, and I don't trust that it's not faerie magic inside. Because of this, I try to keep Matthew away from it. I herd him to the other side of the room and place myself between he and the suspicious contraption. It's loud, too, and it hurts my ears, but I dismiss Matthew's concern. I don't like the harpsichord, but I'll grimace and bear it (Matthew laughs and says the expression is: _grin_ and bear it) because he's enjoying the impromptu party and I don't want to spoil it.

                It's Lovino's birth day, something humans celebrate with a lot of noise and food, I observe. Antonio's mate is twenty-one today, and Antonio seems proud of this fact.

                I look at Lovino and decide that his pride is justified. If my mate had such a fiery fighting spirit in as small a body as Lovino's, I'd be relieved he had survived for twenty-one years, too.

                _He wouldn't survive in the wild_ , I think. Then I see Matthew and reconsider. He's a tall and healthy-looking boy, not nearly as fragile as Lovino, but I've learnt that human appearances are deceiving. It was Matthew who nearly died in the wild. _Because of me_.

                I watch Alfred take Matthew's hands and they twirl together around the cottage, pink-cheeked and laughing. The violet-eyed boy's face is jovial, even if he's still a bit pale; even if he still pauses to catch his breath. It's good to see him animated and prancing around. He accepts Francis' hands as the dancers switch partners, weaving in-and-out of each other in a knot of limbs. I stay in the corner, safely out of the way, but I observe their fast, bouncing feet intently, especially Antonio's.

                Antonio is a good dancer, skilled at the complex steps, which look chaotic to me. His footing is loose, clumsy-looking. His feet are not planted sturdily, and I know that if this was a fight I could easily knock him down. But it's not a fight, it's a dance, and Antonio is happy to be a human—not a wolf—tonight. He leads Lovino in a sweeping circuit of the cottage, then trades partners with Francis and takes Matthew's waist in his hands. I immediately tense and start to rise, angry at Antonio's audacity: that he would dare put his hands on _my_ mate! I feel a growl in my throat and pull my lips back from my teeth, but I stop when I hear Matthew's voice in my memory: _please stop glaring and growling_. I swallow and sit back down, crossing my arms. I remind myself that Antonio is only playing with Matthew, like a pup; that the placement of his hands means nothing. He circles the floor, sways, and spins the boy in such a way that makes Matthew laugh. I dislike that it's Antonio and not me making him smile, but I _do_ like that he's smiling, so I let it happen. Still, I'm relieved when Antonio abandons Matthew. The giddy chocolate wolf bends nearly in half with his arm flung out behind him in a fanciful bow, thanking Matthew for the dance, and then moves on to harassing Arthur, much to Arthur's annoyance.

                Antonio has a lot of energy, but eventually he tires and retreats to my side. Or, perhaps he's just hungry. He chews a honey bun and smiles brightly at me and doesn't care that I don't smile back.

                Alfred refills my tankard with beer, which I like a lot. Beer, I've decided, is the best thing about being human, other than Matthew.

                I guzzle it down and lick my lips, then belch in satisfaction. Antonio chuckles and advises me to drink slower.

                "It's not like water," he says. "It'll make you slow and stupid if you drink too much, and it'll hurt your insides later."

                I make a noise akin to: " _Pff-sh_ " and ignore his warning. I'm an alpha! No human brew can incapacitate me!

                "Teach me how to do that," I say instead, nodding at the dancers.

                He blinks in surprise. "What? _You_ want to _dance_ —?"

                I nod.

                He's suspicious now, his nostrils flaring to read intent in my scent. " _Why_?"

                I feel personally attacked by his doubt. I square my shoulders and sit up, tall and proud. I have a fit body and good balance. I'm fast and agile, a prime athlete. I'd be a wonderful dancer, if only I knew the routine. I tell Antonio that I have more than the necessary endurance for this frivolity, but he's not impressed. In fact, he snorts.

                "It's not a competition," he says. "It's just for fun—you know that, right?"

                I huff impatiently. "Yes, I know that. Can you teach me, or not?"

                He shrugs. "Maybe. It all depends on you. I'll try to," he agrees, teasing me. Then he looks at Matthew and he smiles less arrogantly. "It's for him, isn't it?"

                I bristle and my face gets hot—embarrassment; what a horrible _human_ feeling!—but I nod. _Of course it's for Matthew_! _Why else would I want to prance around in such an undignified way_?

"It'll make Matthew happy," I say.

                "Yes," he agrees, and claps me on the shoulder. "You know, putting someone else's happiness first—? That's a very human thing, Gil. You're learning," he approves, only mildly condescending.

                I shove him off.

                "Tomorrow," he says. "I'll teach you tomorrow."

                _Tomorrow_? "But they're dancing tonight. I want—"

                "You're not doing any dancing tonight," he snickers, like he knows a joke I don't. He nods to the tankard, and repeats: "Slow down."

                Alfred overhears this advice and passes Antonio as the chocolate wolf leaves to retrieve Lovino. He offers a friendly, forthcoming smile, and says: "Want more?"

                I nod, liking Alfred more every minute. But Matthew is less pleased with his brother's hospitality.

                "Al," he scolds, glancing worriedly at me, "don't you think he's had enough? He's never had alcohol before."

                Alfred looks at me, an eyebrow lifted, and snorts. "Beer's not _really_ alcohol; even children drink it," he says, mocking me. "Are you a babe, wolf, that you can't handle another pint?"

                "Of course I can!" I roar, defending myself. I accept his challenge and the refilled tankard with a competitive grin. I don't know why the chocolate wolf and human-boy both doubt my ability to consume a harmless, amber liquid, so I down the contents to prove them wrong. "I can drink much more than any of you!" I declare.

                Alfred hollers in approval and pours again. Matthew sighs.

                My pretty violet-eyed boy sits down beside me and gently brushes a strand of hair off my forehead. His touch is nice and cool on my hot face. I take a deep, slow breath and lean comfortably against him, cradling the now empty tankard. It's a nice place to be, at Matthew's side. He smiles briefly at me, but his gaze is on the dancers—Antonio and Lovino, and Francis and Arthur—and his eyes sparkle. He looks very beautiful in the warm firelight. He looks faraway. I know this look, because it's how he looks waking from a dream. But the longer I watch him watch them, I realize that there's envy in his eyes. Not ugly envy, but a longing for what Arthur and Lovino have with their wolves; wolves who whisper pet-names and kiss them as they dance.

                I can do that, too. I know I can. I can learn to be a good human-mate for him, someone who makes his violet eyes sparkle. I can push aside the wolf and put his happiness first.

                " _I can do it_."

                I don't realize I've said it aloud, until Matthew says: "Sorry, what was that?"

                I shake my head a little, resting now on Matthew's lap. Wait—when did that happen? I open my eyes— _when did I close them_?—and see the room from a sideways vantage. I try to rise, but it's a bad idea. Overhead, Alfred laughs.

                "Oh yeah, you're a real fearsome beast! The Big Bad Wolf!" he mocks in his loud, abrasive voice.

                I grumble and growl and try, again, to get up, ready to defend myself against Alfred's insulting onslaught, but the moment I do I feel lightheaded and have to sit back down. I crumple. I squint and blink a few times, but my vision doesn't clear. My head is heavy and foggy. The faerie music is still playing, but it's just a dull whinging in my ears now. The others still dance, but all I see are blurry shapes. I shake my head in an attempt to regain my senses, to shake off this debilitating numbness, but instead I lose my balance and topple back into Matthew's lap.

                It's nice here, so I decide to stay. My human-boy's body is soft and smells sweet, like cider and baked apples. I breath in deeply and sigh. I'll just stay here for a minute, until this heavy, sleepy feeling passes.

                " _Al_ ," says Matthew's voice. He says something about me and beer and sounds upset.

                I want to tell him not to worry, that I really like beer, but then he begins stroking my head and nothing else matters.

* * *

**MATTHEW**

Gilbert is breathing rhythmically, snoring a little. "It's not funny!" I accuse Al, my voice a hushed whisper. "He's never had alcohol before, he has no tolerance for it!"

                "No tolerance?" Al questions at a regular decibel. "A shotgun shell ripped through his stomach and he lived, Mattie. I don't think a few pints of beer is going to hurt him."

                "It was more than a few," I argue, but Al only chuckles.

                "Oh, don't be so protective," he says, rolling his eyes. "He's a grown man—uh, wolf. Wolf-man. _Aw-roo_!" he howls, provoking Antonio to instinctively reply. Gilbert jerks in his sleep, but doesn't wake.

                I shake my head and look down at the white wolf, who's dead-asleep in my lap. His cheeks are flushed pink, and his silver hair is ruffled, and every exhale breaths out alcohol fumes, his mouth hanging slightly ajar so that I can see the points of his canines, but still he looks peaceful. Asleep, he looks younger. Not soft. There's no softness in that angular face, those straight lines and high, sharp cheekbones, but there is a gentleness about him that endears him to me. I can feel myself smiling as I slowly run my fingers through his hair—fine as spider-silk—and rub his scalp. I don't know why I do it, but it's soothing for us both.

                "Oh, jolly good, Alfred," says Arthur sarcastically, "you've just guaranteed a bad-tempered wolf a hangover."

                Al shrugs, and Lovino giggles, tipsy, but I keep smiling, because Gilbert isn't bad-tempered. I know he's not. He's impatient, impulsive, and irrational; his passions are irascible, but not bad. He's instinctive. He follows his heart more than his head, which none of my family is innocent of either. He's as playful as Al, as protective as Francis, and as proud as Arthur. He likes challenges, and is more competitive than my arrogant brother and more argumentative than my stubborn cousin. He's loud and entitled, but he's also careful and thoughtful and more loyal—devoted—than anyone I've ever met. I forgive his flaws because I recognize them, I love them. Gilbert's not a misfit in my family; he's one of us. My heart knows he is.

                I wish I could say it aloud. I wish I could put these thoughts, my feelings, into words and be brave enough to speak them, but I can't. Al is making rude jokes and Lovino is crying in laughter and Antonio and Francis are stealing sweets and Arthur is scolding them, and no one is paying any attention to me at all; everyone is talking over my head, glad for my presence, but uninterested in my voice, so I stay quiet.

                Quietly, I sit in the corner with the white wolf's head in my lap, ignored, but—for the first time—not invisible.

* * *

**GILBERT**

Gil? Gil—? _Gilbert_!" Antonio snaps his fingers in my face. He huffs, and says: "You're not paying attention."

                I rub my pounding forehead and mumble an excuse. I say I'm trying, but certain factors are making it hard to concentrate on the dance lesson.

                For one, the devilish harpsichord is grating on my nerves. It's high-pitch wafts through the open window and pierces my ears, aggravating my headache. For another, Francis keeps trying to hydrate me, shoving cups of water in my face and telling me I need to drink if I want to feel better, while lecturing me on alcohol consumption. And lastly, Alfred has taken Matthew into the woods for a walk, which is distracting and unsettling, because I don't know where they are, or how far they've gone, or when they'll return. I don't like having Matthew so far away from me, out of sight and out of reach. I don't like being unable to guard my fragile human-boy from everything that could harm him.

                But I _do_ want to learn to dance.

                "Sorry," I grumble. It's a word—a sentiment—that Matthew repeats often, which always seems to placate the aggressor.

                Antonio's frustration ebbs as he readjusts my posture, putting his hands on me. I don't like it, but I weather it in silence, because I've surrendered myself to his experience.

                "It's like this—right hand, left hand," he says, placing my hands on Francis, who's grudgingly agreed to assist us, which I like even less. I can feel him fighting my lead, challenging every move I make, even though he's supposed to be submissive in this position. "Just go slow," Antonio advises. "One, two, three—"

                " _Ouch_! That was my foot!" Francis snaps, hopping a little. My silence prompts his irritation. "This is the part where you apologize," he says peevishly.

                I growl and squeeze his long, slim, breakable fingers until he yelps and yanks free of me.

                "It's fine, it's fine!" Antonio leaps between us with his hands raised, ready to prevent a fight. "Gil, why don't you just, um... practice the steps by yourself for a minute. You're doing great!" he lies cheerfully as he steers Francis away.

                They stand together, bickering in hushed tones. Antonio is wagging a finger at Francis in accusation; Francis has his arms crossed and his head angled snobbishly. He has his long, fair hair tied back in a ribbon today. It's a look I want to criticise, but—gods damn it!—it looks really good on him, and, since he and Matthew have the same soft curls, it makes me wonder what Matthew would look like in a ribbon, too.

                I miss him, my human-boy. He's only been an hour gone, but I miss him terribly. _Separation anxiety_ , I think unhappily. I know I'll feel better about it once we're mated, once the laws—natural and human—decree that he's mine. I'll be more confident about his absence once I know for a fact that he's _my_ mate and no longer eligible for claiming.  (The humans can't see or smell the mark on his neck, but surely they'll sense the change once he and I are mated, right?) I'll be glad to be rid of the discomfort I feel not knowing where he is or what and whom he might encounter.

                "You can't be with him all the time," Antonio told me regrettably. "It's awful, I know," he admitted, "but you have to trust that he'll be okay without you, just for a little while."

                He was right about the mountain, and right about baths ( _bleh_!). I just have to trust that Antonio's right about this, too.

                I shake the unease from my thoughts and resume practicing. I know the steps by heart, without the need for Francis' diagram—I've got a good memory—but the execution befuddles me. Even when I think I'm doing it perfectly, I get criticised:

                "You look like you're marching," Francis says, returning.

                "You're too stiff," Antonio translates.

                "I look like a fool!" I argue, self-conscious of their eyes on me and my phantom partner. I drop my suspended arms. "This isn't helping! Teach me better!" I order.

                Antonio starts to speak, but Francis interrupts. "Go for a run," he says.

                I stare at him, taken aback. " _What_?"

                His tone is flippant, but his arms are firmly crossed. "Go run," he repeats, and points. His blue eyes seize me with begrudging recognition, and, when I don't move, he sighs and explains: "You're frustrated, Gilbert. You've got too much... energy," he says politely, instead of verbally acknowledging the truth of my overeager, hot-blooded state, which was aggravated by thoughts of lovely Matthew. "You'll feel better, calmer, if you get it out of your system, trust me. You'll be able to concentrate. _Go_ ," he urges.

                I hesitate, then—with no better solution; with no mate to focus my _energy_ on—I sigh and accept his advice. I take off running as fast as I can.

                "Hey, Fran?" says Antonio curiously. "How long do you think it's been since he's—you know."

                "Much too long," Francis says solemnly, "but running is the less messy solution."

                Angry in embarrassment, I blush and snarl: " _I can hear you_ , _you pets_!"

* * *

**ARTHUR**

I lean against the tower, sipping a cuppa tea, and watching a hopeless dance lesson performed by three wild creatures in human-form. It's amusing in a mildly horrifying way, like seeing a jack rabbit suddenly stand on its hind legs, don a waistcoat and smoking-pipe, and recite poetry: charming, but wrong.

                As encouraging as Antonio is, he's not a good instructor, because he doesn't even know why he can dance. He just _can_. Nobody taught him about music, the songs and steps and sounds, he simply took to it like a fish to water, like he was born for it. He can't teach, because he can't understand why it's so difficult for Gilbert; I can see the frustration in them both. Gilbert asks: " _But how_?" and Antonio replies, not with words, but a demonstration: " _Like this_!" which is unhelpful, because he can't explain the mechanics of it. Gilbert tries to mimic Antonio's fluid movements, but it's a sad attempt, and he looks more likely to break a bone, so stiff is his figure. Francis could offer more help than he does, but refuses, spitefully content to watch Gilbert flounder, even if it's to the detriment of Matthew's fun. It's petty, but I understand his feelings better than anyone else, because I'm protective of the boys, too. But at least I don't have wolf blood making me inherently territorial.

                When Gilbert sends Francis flying—an accident, presumably—Antonio covers his face with a hand in defeat, and I graduate from casual observer to guest instructor.

                I cross the field, and, without invitation, cut in between Gilbert and Francis. Wordless, I take the white wolf's hands and position one on my waist, the other in my hand, place my left hand on his shoulder, and let myself relax in his tentative embrace. He stands straighter, rolling his shoulders back and holding his arms at a seventy-five degree angle. "Your lead," I surrender, which he likes. He likes that I'm not fighting him, that he's in control. (He thinks he's clever, but he's so easy to read— _manipulate_ —this wolf. They all are.) We begin slowly and I can tell that he's counting the steps in his head, his red eyes darting down to be sure of his footing, but when I tell him to stop, he does. "Alphas don't look down," I say, appealing to his baser instincts, his pride. He pauses for a fraction of a moment, suspicious of my tone, thinking I may be teasing him, but I keep my face empty of mockery. "Alphas lead," I say, urging him on, and, after a brief pause, he does.

                "Pretend that _I'm_ the one who doesn't know the steps," I suggest, narrowly avoiding a collision with Francis when Gilbert accidentally sends me spinning. He curses his clumsiness, getting riled again, impatient as he is, but he's not aggressive with me like he was with Francis. He doesn't push or pull or forcibly bully me into place, because I'm a human, and humans are fragile in his mind. Humans need protecting.

                I let him think of me as weak as we continue, because right now it benefits us both. I let him guide me in a lopsided circuit of the imagined dance floor, drenching my corrections in compliments, which pacifies his temper and his hangover. I shoot Antonio a pert warning glare when he opens his mouth, which silences him, and he and Francis remain quiet thereafter as they watch.

                Do they recognize Gilbert's carefulness, I wonder? Do they see, now, what was missing from their lessons?

                I'm not a noteworthy dancer. I'm not nearly as good as the wolves, to be honest. My childhood was filled with wilder, whimsical dances from a place where mistakes didn't exist. It was only as a youth that I learnt how to follow instructions, not unlike the wolves. I, like they, was raised by the wilderness, by the natural world. I learnt hierarchy, but not structure; laws, but not rules. Humankind finds safety in routine and regulations. The less freedom they have, the safer they feel, which is why _dances_ and not simply _dance_ is important to them. It's the routine steps and perfect form and controlled speed that are vital symbols of civility. As long as one follows the rules and looks the part, society will call him a gentleman no matter what his heart craves.

                It's bollocks, if you ask me. But it's the disguise that will protect Gilbert—and Matthew—from an angry mob.

                _As long as you look like a human on the outside_ , _you're free to be a wolf within._

                Wolves, I've come to know, have more humanity in them then most human-beings.

                The dance concludes without incident, and Gilbert politely mimics me as I graciously bob my head, nodding in thanks. I keep my expression demure until he rights himself, awaiting feedback, and then I smile.

                "Well done," I say, and pat his head.

* * *

**GILBERT**

I practice privately with Arthur at every opportunity for the next three days, stealing time when Matthew is asleep. He tires easily, which worries me, but Arthur assures me that a dance won't do him any harm. Francis, too, critiques my progress—uninvited—saying things like: "Relax your shoulders. Bend your knees more. Don't frown." I bite my tongue and follow his instructions, and by the fourth day I'm ready. At sunset, as planned, Antonio asks for music and Arthur makes the harpsichord play. Everyone is together again in the little cottage, crowding the floor, but I navigate it with purpose. Alfred intercepts to offer me beer. He does it with a gamin grin that tells me never to trust him again, but it's still with deep regret that I refuse. I really like beer, but I'll need all of my faculties if I want to do this properly and not shame myself and Matthew.

                He's sitting alone by the fireplace. He's usually alone, despite the crowd. His curious smile emboldens me as I approach, his gentle eyes wondering at my resolute manner. I wait until the others begin to dance—or, in Alfred's case, eat—and are paying us no mind, because I know that Matthew dislikes the centre-of-attention. He shies from it, I've noticed, though I can't fathom why. As a pack leader, I was used to being the focus of everyone's gaze all the time. I liked having their attention and admiration, and their respect as the alpha. I liked making them bow and wait on my decisions, and I liked all of their foolish challenges. I liked the thrill of each fight, proving my skill and strength while everyone watched in awe, subtly reminding them all of their place. The loudest, proudest, bravest wolf stands at the centre-of-attention, and I love it. But Matthew does not, so I wait.

                I use the moment to plan my words. " _Dance with me_ ," I want to say, because it's what I want, but it sounds too much like a command. " _Please dance with me_?" No, definitely not. That sounds like I'm begging. " _Let's dance_!" sounds like Antonio, and " _Come and dance with me_ ," sounds like Francis, and both are orders disguised with loving smiles. I have to say something soon though, because Matthew is looking at me expectantly. It makes me nervous, and what comes out is not as smooth or confident as I intended:

                "Do you want to, um, dance?" I ask, a slight waver in my voice.

                Matthew is surprised—a little doubtful, perhaps, but mostly giddy as he accepts. He might have reservations about my ability, but he takes my hand without fear.

                His touch is tentative at first, our bodies barely touching, but soon the uncertainty flees his face as I begin to move _with_ the music, not against it, as Antonio lectured. I don't look down at my feet, and I don't tense at the turns. I lead Matthew, a little slower than the tempo wants, but he doesn't seem to mind, and we don't collide with anything or anyone. As Antonio and Lovino sweep past us, the chocolate wolf gives me his signature double thumbs-up, which I outwardly ignore but internally accept with glee, because I'm doing it! I'm dancing— _courting_ —like a proper human suitor, and my intended mate is smiling! It makes all of the frustration of the past days worth it, because he's beautiful and he's happy as I swing him around, risking a little speed and whirling him. I can feel the trajectory of his body and I'm there to catch him when he returns. He laughs, so I do it again, and again. Then, suddenly, we're in the middle of the floor, integrating with the other dancers, which is something I didn't train for, but my brief worry is unfounded. I keep my focus on Matthew and we emerge from the tangle of limbs unscathed, and by the time the harpsichord finally slows to a calmer tempo, the strings straining to hold longer, deeper notes, I'm glad for it, because I'm actually a little tired. It gives me the chance to look at Matthew, _really_ look at him, because we're not moving fast now, and I can see his soft violet eyes sparkling like the faraway stars; sparkling and smiling, now, for me. Not for Francis or Antonio or Alfred— _me_. Knowing that makes my stomach flutter and my face gets hot, even though I've had no beer. It's not a bad feeling, but it makes me wish, suddenly, that Matthew and I were alone. I've come to take comfort in him, and don't mind when he sees the gentler, messier emotions on my face, but I certainly don't want everyone else seeing them!

                I swallow, then take a deep breath. I try to keep all of those _feelings_ shut securely inside.

                But then Matthew does something that makes me forget we're not alone, something that silences all doubt, quiets all fear. Without a word, he lays his head against my chest and closes his eyes. It's not a big gesture, but it says a lot to me. He holds me while I hold him, and we stop moving, but I don't care. I can feel his heart beating against mine, and the pale heat of his body, and the whisper of his breath, slow and soft in contentment. The harpsichord still plays, and the others dance and drink and talk, but Matthew and I are alone, now, in an isolated moment belonging only to us—a moment that _I_ created, and it's wonderful.

                I don't care who's watching, now. I lower my head to his and inhale his scent. He smells good tonight, a little spicy with cinnamon and cloves. I'd watched he and Francis baking earlier, delving, without permission, into Arthur's secret stores. I like the feel of his unribboned curls against me, too, as soft as a rabbit pelt. I've never touched a rabbit without breaking its neck, but I'm not going to break Matthew. I'm never going to hurt him again. I'm just going to hold him, gently, and protect him always.

                I love him. I love his heart and his looks and his sweet voice as it quietly wafts up to my ears, dreamy at first; no words, just sound. It's just a melodic humming, but it's much nicer than the intrusive harpsichord. It soothes me. Matthew's voice is like the spring breeze that thaws winter's chill; the essence that breaths life back into the trees and flowers. It's not something immediately observed, but it's warm and sweet and deeply pleasant, and only missed in its absence, like the singing of birds.

                I really love his voice. I wish he used it more.

                Eventually, he lifts his head and smiles tenderly up at me.

                "Thank-you, Gilbert," says his lips.

                _Thank-you for learning to dance for me_ , says his eyes. _Thank-you for always trying so hard._

I'm supposed to bow my head in reply, but instead I lift his hand to my lips and press a light kiss to the back. And I say:

                "You're welcome, my songbird."


	10. Nine

**GILBERT**

I resist the pull of the wolf as I chase Matthew around the garden, dodging snowballs and delighting in the excited sound of his laugh. It's a grey, snowy day, but Matthew has been stuck in the cottage for too long and today Arthur finally gives him permission to leave and run and play. In fact, he says: "Go—go run, you've got too much energy!" and shoos him out the door. Matthew glories in this freedom and hollers a fake howl as I race after him, tearing a path through the knee-deep snow. I let him stay just out of reach, even though we both know I could catch him if I wanted to. It's more amusing to pretend that he can outrun me. ( _Me_ , _ha_!) It's more charming to watch his clumsy, panicked lunges, his arms wheeling for balance. Antonio would call his frolicking _cute_ , and I can't help but agree. Matthew's enjoyment is contagious. It's been a long, long time since I've played like a pup; a long time since I've played at all. But I find myself laughing as we run and a happy growl rolls past my lips.

                When I notice him tiring, I leap and tackle him around the waist. I drag him down into the snow and crawl over him, effortlessly fighting his meager struggles until he stills in feigned surrender. He lies on his back and stares mischievously up at me, his cheeks rosy and his breath coming in fast, visible puffs. His heart is pounding hard, but in a good way, and he has fat snowflakes in his eyelashes. His lips are red and ripe and the sweetest sounds spill out of them. I want to kiss him.

                I lean down, but he presses a hand to my mouth to stop me. I cock my head and pout, and he smiles because he can feel it. I smile, too, and kiss the inside of his gloved hand.

                " _Gilbert—Gil_ , _stop_!" he laughs, trying to pull back in retreat.

                I tug his glove off and press my lips to his skin as he wriggles and laughs. I kiss his wrist—feel his pulse—then his palm and his fingers, teasing him with my teeth—

                " _Ouch_!" he yelps.

                I flinch and release him. The play goes out of me when I see the blood.

                "It's okay," Matthew says. He forces a relaxed expression for my benefit, but I know I've hurt him by the way he cradles his hand. "It's not your fault," he assures me, but then he leaves the garden and goes inside.

* * *

You _bit him_?" Antonio looks horrified. "You _bit_ your mate?"

                "It was an accident!" I argue, feeling worse because of the disappointment on his face. _Wait—why do I even care what he thinks of me_? _When did I start needing his approval_? "I was just playing! It was just a little nip!"

                Antonio shakes his head. "How many times do we have to tell you? Humans are _delicate_. Their skin isn't as tough as ours, it breaks and bruises really easily. You have to be careful when you're playing with Matt. You have to be gentle when you touch him. _Always_."

                "So, what? I can't ever..." I chew on my bottom lip. I want to say _mate him_ , but instead I say: "...kiss him?"

                "You can kiss him," Antonio says. "And you can mate him—with permission," he quickly adds. "You can put your mouth and your tongue on him, but not your teeth, Gil. Never your teeth."

                I nod, secretly relieved. "Don't tell Francis, okay?"

                Antonio points a warning finger at me. "Don't ever bite Matt again." Then his face relaxes into a smile and he opens his hand.

                I take it and we shake, a gesture I've become familiar with.

                 "I won't," I say earnestly, "I promise."

* * *

**MATTHEW**

Don't tell Francis, okay?" I plead as Arthur cleans and bandages my finger.

                He gives me a disapproving look, then shakes his head in exasperation. "Bloody wolf bit you," he mutters.

                "It was an accident," I say, pulling my sleeve down to cover my fingertips.

                Arthur shoots me another skeptical glance as he puts his medical supplies away. He does it mechanically—he doesn't even need to look to know where everything goes. He's been doing it for a long time, and our family makes sure he gets a lot of practice. He and Francis have been taking care of us for as long as I can remember.

                "Art?" I ask, after the silence has stretched into a full reprimand. "How did you and Francis meet?"

                Arthur pauses, then closes the cupboard and faces me. "Why the sudden interest?"

                I cock an eyebrow at him to imply the recent influx of wolves in my life. "It's just, he's always been with us." I shrug. "I can't remember him ever not being with us, but I don't actually know how you met. I keep wondering how it is I never knew he was a wolf. I mean, if Francis was ever anything like Gilbert..."

                "He wasn't," Arthur says, sitting down beside me. "Maybe he would've been in a different circumstance, but when I found him he was trapped."

                "In a cage?"

                "No, in his own body."

* * *

**ARTHUR**

**11 YEARS AGO**

I'm picking wild cranberries when I hear it, the quiet whine of a dog. But there are no dogs this deep in the forest, not without a human companion. At first I think it must be lost, so I follow the noise. The forest is dark and dense, but I'm not afraid of it. I know every rock, every leaf, and every creature that calls this forest home. I know what heals and what kills, and I know my place in the world's natural order. The faeries have blessed me with gifts that keep me safe.

                This is why I don't panic when I see him. A wolf in human-skin.

                He looks like a youth—like me, but prettier than me. His naked body is long and golden and he has curly hair that spills over his shoulders, hiding his face. He's lying on his stomach.

                I poke him with a stick, but he only groans. He's weak and starving.

                I kneel down cautiously and brush the hair off his face, revealing a strong, angular jaw and dehydrated lips. His nose twitches and his eyelids quiver, and then his lips recede enough to show his teeth, but his growl is strangled.

                _What happened to you_? I wonder. He doesn't have any external injuries, but something is wrong. A wolf would never choose to stay in his weaker form, especially when in distress; no creature would. So, it's not a question of why _doesn't_ he change, but why _can't_ he?

                He lifts his head a little and opens his eyes, which are as blue as gemstones. " _Don't_..." he wheezes in warning.

                For a moment I think I'll grant his wish and leave him alone to starve, but it's a rather brief moment. I'm not a charitable being. The faeries don't reward or revere charity like humans do, but they do like riddles. And what is a riddle but an unsolved challenge? I see the wolf and I see how he can benefit me, so I tug off my travelling cloak and drape it over his nudity. I don't know how I'm going to carry him back to the cottage, but I know that I'm going to help him. I'm too greedy not to—too curious. His body is saturated in faerie magic and I want to know why.

                "I'm going to help you," I say, slipping my arms around his torso. He's very heavy. I drop him and he growls.

                " _Go away_ ," he begs. " _Leave me alone_!"

                I ignore him and try again.

* * *

**FRANCIS**

My head is pounding. It hurts to open my eyes, but I do. I'm lying on my back on a bed of hay and staring up into the weathered rafters of a wooden tower. It's covered in cobwebs and bird nests and animal scat, and it smells like mildew and wood-rot, an unpleasing scent. And it's drafty. The wind whistles through cracks in the domed roof, but at least it protects me from the rain pouring outside. At least I'm not as cold as I could be, which is an even more unpleasing thought than the smell. As long as I lived as a wolf I was never burdened by the cold, but now I can feel it. I can feel it in my bones the way humans do, and I don't like it. Nor do I like the drumming in my head, or the painful tickle in my throat. I cough—again, again, again—and then water is being fed into my mouth and his hand is anchored on my hot forehead.

                The boy sitting next to me has a gentle touch and the greenest eyes I've ever seen. He holds the water skin to my lips until I've drank my fill, then wipes my chin.

                He says: "Don't fight it."

                "What?" I growl, affronted that this skinny human-child would dare to give me orders. Doesn't he know what I am? I try to shift forms, but a piercing pain shoots through my body and my head screams in protest.

                "That," he says as I whimper. The look on his face is not afraid and not impressed. "Don't try to shift forms. Don't fight the faerie charm, it'll only hurt you."

                I tense at his mention of the fey. "Who are you?" I demand. "How do you know about the dark magic?"

                "It's not _dark_ magic," he lectures. "It's natural. Dark magic is _un_ natural. Just because the faeries use natural magic for dark purposes doesn't make the magic dark."

                I frown, then scowl. I don't like this boy—pretty as he is. He smells like the fey and speaks too casually about them, almost fondly.

                "You're a changeling," I deduce, shying away from his gentle—poisonous—touch. It's such a shame that the prettiest things in life are always the most dangerous, but beauty like this boy's comes at a cost, and I will not be lured into another fey trap no matter how tempting the bait. In proof I bare my teeth, sharp even in my human-form, but the boy is not intimidated.

                "You're starving," he says, trading the water skin for a bowl of meaty broth. It smells disgusting. Did he brew it himself? Poison, no doubt.

                "How long have you been unable to hunt?" he asks rhetorically, shoving the brew at me. "Eat."

                "Poison," I spit.

                He fumes, his cheeks reddening. "It's not," he says, tethering his temper. "It's food. It'll save you from dying of hunger."

                "Because it will kill me much swifter!" I argue.

                He's angry now. There is fire in his eyes and bullying strength in his frail hands, no longer gentle. He tries to push a spoonful of broth against my closed lips, but spills it down my chin. It feels slimy on my skin, but I will not eat faerie food. I would rather starve than be enthralled to those _un_ natural things.

                "I'm not a changeling," says the boy, switching tactic.

                I wait for him to lower the spoon before opening my mouth to speak. "You smell like the fey."

                "I lived with them for a time."

                "So you're not a changeling, you're the opposite—a human-child stolen by the fey. It makes no difference if you lived with them. The magic is in you."

                "Yes," he admits, though he doesn't seem ashamed. He seems proud. "I learnt from them. The faeries are the oldest beings in the world and I'm a greedy student."

                Not proud—arrogant. That's what this boy is. If only he wasn't so very, very pretty. The fey like pretty things, especially children.

                "Once I had learnt all they wanted to teach me, I was released."

                I laugh cynically. (It hurts my throat.) "The fey do not relinquish their property without a bargain. What is it that binds you to them? What have you promised them in return for your freedom?"

                "That," he says, turning his back to me, "is none of your concern."

                "Wait!" I call, trying to rise. "Where are you going?"

                He stops at the door and casts a look over-the-shoulder, one eyebrow raised. "If you're not going to eat then there's no point in me helping you."

                "Helping me—how?"

                "By removing the faerie charm, of course. But if you prefer to starve to death, by all means, go ahead. I'll be back in a fortnight to dispose of your remains. Do try not to leave a mess."

                "WAIT!" I call again, louder.

                He sighs and turns, a vapid smile on his freckled face. "Yes—?"

                "You can remove the curse?" I ask, hating the hope in my voice. "You can free me? I won't be trapped in my human-form anymore?"

                "If my remedy succeeds, then yes. The magic in _your_ body will once again be fluid and you'll be able to shift forms at will."

                " _If_ ," I repeat distrustfully. "And _if_ you can't?"

                He shrugs. "You'll be no worse off than you are now."

                "Except I'll have let a fey-witch experiment on me," I growl. "And I'll be trapped in my human-form forever."

                I don't know why, but his eyes soften then. So does his voice. It becomes gentle, like his hands. "It's not that bad, you know, being human. You might find you prefer it.

                "I'm Arthur," he says, retreating to my bedside. He offers me his hand.

                I stare at it, then lift my gaze up to his alluring green eyes. I don't want to trust him, but I also can't deny the truth of his words. Not the part about being human— _how disgraceful_!—but the part where he's my only hope to be cured. I don't relish being used as a test-subject for fey magic, and I don't like the unfair balance of power between us, where I feel like the prey in a hunt. But this is the reality of my pitiful situation. He's cornered me and he knows it. If I ever want to be a wolf again then I have no choice but to trust him.

                "Francis," I mutter, and grudgingly take his hand.

* * *

**ARTHUR**

The first potion fails. And the second. And the third. And by late-autumn Francis and I are both frustrated and ready to give-up. " _Why doesn't it work_?" he yells, and throws a tantrum that destroys the laboratory I've painstakingly built. He has a volatile temper and is quick to anger when he doesn't get his way—spoiled in the most unconventional way. He may be wearing a man's handsome skin, but the wolf's spirit is still present in everything he does. "I don't know why it doesn't work," I tell him, but it doesn't soothe him. He doesn't want to hear that I'm doing the best I can. He doesn't see the time and effort I've invested, he only sees the lack of results, like a child. He only sees my failures.

                "If you're not satisfied, then go!" I scream at him. I fling open the heavy door. "Nothing is keeping you here! If you hate me so much then just go! Go die in the woods, wolf!"

                "I will!" he threatens, trying to squeeze sympathy out of me, but I don't take the bait.

                "Fine!" I shout.

                "Fine!" he snarls.

                We argue so passionately one night that he does leave, and it terrifies me. I fear that he'll never come back.

                But he does come back. The next morning I awake to find his blue eyes watching me from across the room. He's perched in my chair because I'm lying in his bed, my eyes red from crying. Wordlessly, I get up and wipe my face, and say: "I've got another idea." He nods in silence and surrenders himself to my tests.

                Eventually, as autumn freezes and winter thaws and spring flowers grow and wilt beneath the bright summer sun, we start to admit the truth. Little by little, we come to acknowledge what we both suspected from the beginning: that my skills and knowledge are not enough to break Francis' curse. Little by little, we both stop pretending to believe in a cure.

                On the Summer Solstice, I abandon my fruitless work in the tower laboratory and invite Francis to live in the cottage. There I finally introduce him to Alfred and Matthew, who are both five-years-old. I've told him a lot about my young cousins, to whom I play guardian, but he's never been in such close proximity to them before. He's smelled and spied them from a distance, but I've never let him get close. At first I'm cautious and I hover at the boys' side, afraid of the wolf showing his teeth—figuratively _and_ literally—but it's an unnecessary worry. The wolf in Francis falls in love with the boys just as hopelessly as the man does, and I breathe a sigh of relief. At least that's one thing I needn't worry about. The blue of his eyes never lies.

                It quickly becomes apparent that Alfred and Matthew are better teachers for Francis than I am, and, over the years, all three of them learn  how to be proper humans together. Francis is good at mimicry and he grows with them, but it's still a long time before I'm confident enough in his act to take him into the village. He complains about having to wear clothes from head-to-toe and I realize I've made a mistake letting him walk around the cottage half-naked all the time—my fault, I know, but I like looking at him—but otherwise he's on his best behaviour. He even wears shoes! I lace Alfred and Matthew's laces and then lead us into the village, nervous about the risk I'm taking. _Can he really do this_? I worry. _Can he pass for a human_? _What if he can't_? _They'll hunt him and burn me for witchcraft_! I stay close to Francis, ready to whisper advice or whack him if necessary, but he doesn't seem to be bothered by my proximity. In fact, he gravitates toward me whenever I venture away. He glares and growls at everyone in the village, and refuses to let go of Alfred and Matthew's hands, afraid they'll get hurt, but otherwise it's a successful outing. The second time we go into the village he's better—he only growls at one person, who, frankly, deserved it. The third time is even better, as is the fourth and fifth and sixth. Francis is perceptive, he's clever, and every time he encounters a new person or place or situation he learns from it; he learns from his mistakes. Eventually, he can even converse with the villagers without me mediating. He's not the most popular person in the village—foreigners never are—but none of them believe he's anything but a born-and-bred human man.

                On the second anniversary of our meeting, I tell Alfred and Matthew that it's Francis' birth day, because in a way it is. It's the day he began a new life. A wolf-less life.

                The boys give him hugs and kisses and then present the gift they've crafted for him, which is a piece of _very_ abstract art they say represents our _family_. Bits of dried plant and animal matter are woven together with twine and decorated with flowers. I think it's supposed to be a dream-catcher, but I'm not going to ask for fear of insulting their handiwork. Instead, I feign interest as Alfred explains:

                "This is me! I'm the bear claw 'cause I'm the strongest!" he says, flexing his little muscles. Then he points to a white feather: "And that's Mattie, 'cause he sings really nice. Artie, you're the rabbit's foot, 'cause it's for good luck. And Francis," he says, crawling into the wolf's welcoming lap for the finale, "you're the fishing net that holds all of us together and protects us from breaking. See?"

                Wordlessly, Francis nods.

                Matthew looks up at him, wringing his small hands self-consciously. "Do you like it?"

                Francis nods again, pursing his lips tightly, and pulls both boys into a fierce paternal hug. He buries his face, but I can see that he's crying— _actually_ crying! so swollen with emotion. And even though his words say: "I love it", his eyes say: _I love you_.

                And I'm happy.

                For the first time in a long, long time, I'm _actually_ happy.

* * *

**FRANCIS**

I'm in the village when the choke of smoke hits me.

                It's a distant but strong smell. In it, I scent oak and pine wood, and old paper, and drying herbs, like the kind hanging from the rafters of the cottage. I smell minerals and metal, like our big iron-cooker. I smell linens dried with lavender, the tallow of melted candles, the acid of charcoal ink. I smell the earthy lead of toy soldiers, and dyed wool saturated in a baby-sweet scent all too familiar to me.

                I turn in the street and see the smoke curling skyward at the edge of the village and I know that the cottage is on fire.

                I run faster than I've ever run before. I race the fire-brigade and shove bystanders out of my path as I tear toward the cottage, which is aflame. The thatched roof looks like an equinox bonfire as flames like serpents' tongues thrash in the wind, and the windows belch black smoke.

                _What happened_? I wonder, but it's a feeble query. For months, now, I've listened to the villagers whisper the word _witch_ when Arthur passes by. I've seen the way their eyes follow him, narrowed in suspicion, their bodies stiff in defense. I've seen the way parents retrieve children from his path, his sight, and the way shopkeepers deny the sale of goods with transparent excuses. They throw glares and insults at his back. They clutch religious pendants that look, to me, no different from pagan talismans, and seem to be for the same purpose, for they mutter prayers like charms of protection. I've known since the beginning that the villagers dislike Arthur, whom they stare at with an intense desire, then spit at in penance for their lustful thoughts. They don't trust him, even though so many beg his help in the night. They blame him for their misfortune, finding in him a target for their anger and grief and misdeeds. If a babe dies; if a crop fails; if someone assaults another—" _The green-eyed witch made me do it_!" they say.

                One of these hateful, fearful people has set fire to the cottage.

                One of these _civilized_ men has tried to murder my pack.

                The cottage is surrounded when I reach it, but no one moves to douse the fire. It's too big, too fierce. My eyes search the crowd and land on a dark-skinned man with curly hair and molten-gold eyes. Vargas is his name; I've been introduced to him before. He's the wealthiest man in the village—the alpha of his family—and one of the few friendly faces I know. He has never turned away from Arthur, nor does he now. His arms are wrapped tightly around Arthur as the green-eyed youth struggles and shouts. His hands claw like he's swimming toward the cottage, and for a moment I'm grateful to Vargas for holding him, because Arthur would run into the fire if not, but then my mind registers what my eyes do not see.

                I do not see Alfred. I do not see Mathieu.

                When my eyes meet Arthur's I see—not despair for his lost potions and spells, but—manic fear for the loved ones still trapped.

                " _Alfred_! _Matthew_!" he wails like a banshee. Then my name, too—" _Francis_!"—as I charge inside.

* * *

**ARTHUR**

I shriek until my voice is hoarse, until I can taste blood in my mouth, but Roma Vargas does not let me go. As if from a great distance, I can hear his voice saying: " _No_ , _Arthur_! _You can't go in there_ , _you'll burn_! _The whole cottage is about to collapse_!" but I take no heed. My mind is reeling and I can think of nothing but my cousins—my boys; the lives I've been entrusted with—and I wonder why no one has rescued them. A few have tried. A few of the braver men have tried to get close to the cottage, but the flames prevent them getting in. They frighten the men: the big, strong men the villagers praise, and they turn from it with pity in their eyes and cowardice in their hearts.

                " _Let me go_!" I yell. " _I am not afraid_ , _let me go_!" but Roma doesn't listen.

                Then I see him, Francis. The blue-eyed wolf whom I've come to rely on, to care for; the wolf who's become a part of my family. The only person besides my cousins who looks at me and sees only me, not a changeling or a witch, but the skinny, freckled human-boy I've always been. He's my companion, my only real friend. He's the warm, golden presence I feel deep within my soul.

                He charges into the cottage and I scream.

                I don't scream words. It's just a long, painful wail now, because I can feel it. I can feel myself losing him to the fire, and it's like someone is ripping out my heart.

                I scream and I cry, because my family has been trapped inside for too long. My boys and my companion have been swallowed by the fire, murdered by someone else's fear.

                The cottage collapses and I fall to my knees.

                No human man could survive it—

                —but a wolf can, and it's a wolf I see emerge from the wreckage.

                He's a big tawny wolf, and he's carrying the boys in a bed-sheet, which hangs like a hammock from his maw. I rip myself free of Roma Vargas, who is too stunned to react, and run to meet them. The wolf's fair coat is singed and the pads of his paws leave bloody prints as he walks, but his eyes are blue and beautiful and _human_. I crash to a stop in front of him and throw my arms around his neck, embracing the wolf and man I've come to love. Gently he licks the tears off my face.

                "Alfred, Matthew," I worry, seeing the unconscious boys, who are badly hurt. The wolf whimpers at my side.

                "I can save them," I tell him, at the same time telling myself. The raw burns on their skin, the smoke in their lungs— _I can breathe life into them_. _I can breathe_ my _life into them._

                "Francis," I say, a quiver in my voice; tears on my cheeks. "Take care of them."

                His blue eyes widen a fraction, but it's too late. I've already raised up my hands, summoning the faerie magic that lives inside of me. " _Sleep_!" I say loudly, commanding the villagers—everyone within a mile—to drop into a deep, forgetful slumber. Then I place a hand over Alfred's heart, and a hand over Matthew's, and I can feel the cold hands of death creeping over them, and I push it back. I utter words I've learnt but never said and feel the _un_ natural magic of resurrection blossom within me, letting the warmth of my body, my life, flow into them and paying for the return of their lives with mine. It doesn't take long before a chill takes me and my strength weakens. My vision goes blurry and my head feels heavy as I sway, unable to keep myself upright, and my hands slip from the boys' beating hearts as I fall down, down, down into darkness.

* * *

I awake, unexpectedly, weeks later in the arms of the wolf, who has taken his human-form to guard me.

                He smiles down at me, his lips soft and parted; his cornflower-blue eyes tender and beautiful; and his hands gentle but firm, holding me, protecting me like he protected my boys. He's pale and wan, like he hasn't eaten or slept. And he's crying again. Tears, silver in the starlight, roll silently down his unshaved cheeks. He's so sensitive, this wolf.

                My wolf.

                My mate.

                My Francis.

* * *

**MATTHEW**

**PRESENT**

I listen to Arthur's story in its entirety before speaking. But I don't ask about he and Francis. My cousin isn't someone who lingers. He's told me his tale, now it's finished. Instead, I ask:

                "Al says it's because of a faerie spell that I feel the way I do about Gilbert. Is that true?"

                Arthur retrieves two teacups from the shelf, where mine and Al's decrepit eleven-year-old gift to Francis still hangs. I don't remember the fire that destroyed it. I don't remember everything—our house, our things—coming back to life. No one does. Arthur places the teacups between us on the table and pours boiled water, steeped with herbs.

                "No," he answers, the aromatic steam rising. "There's nothing intoxicating in a wolf's bite." The impish twist of his lips reveals his amusement. "I'm afraid you've got no one to blame for your feelings but yourself. Never-mind what Alfred says. He's just scared."

                "Scared?" I repeat in surprise. "Of what?"

                "He's scared because everything in his life has suddenly changed, and we both know how well Alfred deals with change," he says sarcastically. Then he softens. "He's scared because he believes his brother is in love with a wolf.

                "Am I wrong?" he asks when I don't reply.

                "No," I confess. I can feel myself blushing. "I mean, I don't think so. I... I don't know. I don't deny that I have feelings for Gilbert," I admit, cupping the teacup in both hands. "I _can't_ deny it. But it's all happening so fast. I don't want to call it love yet, even if that's what it is. Do you think... is that okay?"

                "Of course it is. You don't have to do anything you don't want to. You can call it whatever you want, or never name it at all. It's your decision, pet."

                I nod, but it's hesitant. And it's because of Gilbert. "He's just so impatient," I say, a little worried. "What if he won't wait?"

                "He will," Arthur says blithely, unhelpful.

                "But what if he wants—"

                " _He'll wait_ , Matthew," he repeats, firmer. "Trust me, he loves you deeply. And, better yet, he's finally starting to understand you."

                I look down, trying to hide my bashfulness by taking a sip of tea. "When did you fall in love with Francis?" I redirect.

                Arthur straightens defensively. It's not a conversation he's comfortable having, I know. Our household is not full of verbal love because of Arthur. It's something I never would have dared ask him before Gilbert.

                "I don't know," he deflects. "It happened very gradually."

                "But when did you _know_ you loved him?"

                Arthur stalls by taking a long drink of tea. Then he sets the teacup down slowly, perfectly pristine, perfectly dignified, and perfectly contemplative. "The night of the fire," he says quietly, softening. "It's when I realized that you and Alfred weren't the only ones I was afraid of losing."

                "I was afraid of Gilbert when I first met him," I admit, "but now? I can't imagine my life without him. Is that how you felt about Francis?"

                "I was never afraid of Francis," he quips, typically self-assured.

                I resist the urge to roll my eyes. I lift the teacup to my lips, but don't drink. It hovers there for a moment as I collect my thoughts, my feelings, trying to translate them into words.

                "I'm not ready to say I'm in love with him yet." I say it to Arthur, looking timidly at Arthur, but it's myself I'm really talking to, and he's good enough to sit patiently and let me. "But I _do_ know that I want to be with him. I feel... connected to him, like... like I would be incomplete now without him. Do you know that feeling?" I ask hopefully.

                Arthur doesn't verbally confirm, but he nods.

                "I want him to stay with me," I say with more confidence. "He's really sweet—to me, at least. And he makes me laugh. I feel safe with him, comfortable, because I know he's not judging me. He doesn't expect from me what the villagers do, he doesn't just _assume_ things about me. And I know how hard he's been trying to change himself, to fit in with human society. I know it's necessary, but I hope he doesn't change too much. I like him as a wolf. I like him being so straightforward," I chuckle. "He's charming, in his own way. There's an innocence in him I didn't expect. And I... I feel really good about myself when I'm with him," I realize in surprise. "I actually like who I am when I'm with him. I'm not as afraid."

                Arthur's eyes are soft in sympathy, so I quickly, lightheartedly add:

                "And I don't know if you've noticed, but he's _really_ handsome."

                Arthur frowns, now. He cocks his head and scrunches his nose in feigned contemplation. "Really—?"

                I'm baffled by his hesitance. "Yes, of course," I emphasize, shocked he doesn't share my opinion. "You don't think so?"

                His reply is polite, but his teasing indulgence is transparent. He lifts his teacup to his lips and says smoothly: "I suppose I just prefer more conventionally attractive wolves."

                "How can you say that?" I demand, laughing now. "Gilbert is gorgeous! He's so tall and... _rugged_." I bite my lip, thinking of the wolf's naked muscles.

                "Well, I can't argue there," Arthur cedes. "He is a rather fit wolf. But strength isn't everything, and Francis," he says, like we're competing, "has many other talents."

                The twinkle in his eyes and the sultry insinuation in his tone makes me cringe. "No, no—I take it back," I say pre-emptively, pointing a warning finger at him. "I'm not having this conversation with you, Art. You're talking about the man who's practically my father."

                Arthur laughs. "Well, you started it," he argues. "Is it really fair that I have to sit here listening to you moon over Gilbert, but you won't let me discuss the finer merits of Francis' tongue—"

                "Okay, okay, I surrender!" I say, throwing up my hands to show I'm not joking. "I take it all back! Just _please_ stop talking about Francis' tongue!"

                "What's this now?"

                I turn to find Lovino smirking in the doorway, his fist half-raised to knock. He lowers it and crosses his arms, a playful twinkle in his eye.

                I shrink in embarrassment, but Lovino is not bashful as he saunters in, collecting the thread of our private conversation.

                "Wolves have longer tongues than humans, you know. Toni can tie a cherry stem into a knot with his," he says, and winks provocatively.

                Wordless, I abandon my tea and head for the door. A sign of protest.

                Lovino snickers, taking my place as Arthur calls out: "Oh, come on now, pet—tell us more about how big and strong Gilbert is and we'll tell you what it's like to have a wolf's tongue in your—"

                I practically lunge for the safety of my bedroom and slam the door closed behind me. From the other side, I can hear peals of raucous laughter.


	11. Ten

**GILBERT**

Matthew smells delicious today. He _feels_ delicious.

                He's standing at the iron cooker, stirring something with a wooden spoon that bubbles as it boils. It smells like sugar and strawberries—a syrupy jam made for Alfred, because it's his favourite treat. I peer over Matthew's shoulder as he adds more strawberry preservatives into the copper pot, watching the alchemy of cookery as the flavours melt and blend. It smells good, but not nearly as good as Matthew does. I lean in closer, my hands resting on his hips and my fingers pressing into the indented curve of his waist. I inhale deeply, wishing that I could taste the mouth-watering scent, but before I can; before my tongue can dart out to lick the boy's warm, rosy skin, Francis seizes the back of my shirt-collar and jerks me away.

                " _No_ ," he says firmly, stabbing forth a warning finger.

                A little later, while awaiting for the jam to simmer, Matthew goes outside to collect the freshly falling snow. I follow, amused and aroused by the boy holding a basket of clean, virgin snow the way others hold spring flowers. It's needed to make ice-cream, he tells me.

                "What does ice-cream taste like?" I ask, intrigued. I lean against the cottage, my arms crossed comfortably.

                "It's delicious," he replies, eyes sparkling. "It's sweet and milky, but frozen. And especially good with fruit."

                "Jam?" I tease.

                He nods, smiling. "Or maple syrup."

                Maple syrup, I've had. I've eaten the frozen sap of maple trees, but Matthew shakes his head and tells me it's not quite the same as syrup. The alchemy of boiling the sap is the missing key component, allegedly.

                "I'll make you a special treat tonight," he promises, "so you can try it."

                "I'd rather try you," I start to say— _gods_ , _I want to lick the snow off his face_!—but Arthur interrupts.

                "Sorry?" Matthew looks expectantly at me. "I didn't hear you, Gilbert. What did you say?"

                "Never-mind," Arthur waves his hand dismissively at me as he ushers Matthew back inside. "I need a hand with something, pet. Gilbert," he says to me, green eyes glaring, "go fetch some firewood." Then he closes the door in my face.

                Rather rude of the person I'm supposed to be learning good-manners from. Francis and Antonio keep telling me to express myself, to share my _feelings_ with Matthew, which is exactly what I was trying to do before Arthur rudely interrupted. I was going to tell him how good he smells, how lovely he is. I was going to tell him how much I want to taste him and touch him and mate him, because it's precisely how I feel. Now, I can't help but _feel_ this system of good-manners is flawed.

                I go into the woods to grudgingly collect firewood, but being alone with my thoughts only fuels my yearning desire. The pull of the wolf has been strong lately, but today it's maddening. I desperately want to shed these human rags and human-skin and become a wolf. I feel it in my bones as they stretch and crack. I feel it in my heart, pounding like a fast, steady drumbeat. I feel it in my throat as I bite back a howl. I feel it everywhere, in everything I do, except in the lust I feel for Matthew. I want him with an animal passion, but as a human-man. It's the first time during a full moon that I've wanted my human-form more than my wolf-form, but it's a powerful, impatient want that makes me hunger for my human-boy.

                "I _want_ my Matthew."

* * *

**FRANCIS**

I look from left-to-right to be sure no one is watching, then vault over a fence of sharp-topped wooden stakes, landing in the grocers' back-garden. The backdoor is closed, but the window shudders are open a crack, and through it I can see Lovino standing at the harvest table. He's tossing potatoes over his shoulder at random as he peels them, aiming for trajectories he doesn't think Antonio can reach in time, but the playful wolf's agility far surpasses his, leaping and catching deftly, making the boy laugh openly, his pretty face as delighted as Antonio's is. Antonio's green eyes twinkle, loving the game of fetch, and proving that he's still a pup at heart.

                (I was present at the discovery of Antonio's shameless love for chase. Lovino had been handling something—I don't remember what; a small, rounded object of no importance—when a sudden noise had startled him and flung it accidentally from his hand. Antonio, who had been standing nearby, reacted on impulse. He burst from his human-skin and took off after the flying projectile in elated, four-legged pursuit, his tail wagging furiously when he caught it.

                Lovino and I had both scolded him for it afterward: " _What if you had been seen_?" Lovino had raged, but his fear was irrelevant in the face of Antonio's big, apologetic green eyes. He had bowed his head and held out the object meekly, and said: "I... I retrieved it for you, Lovi."

                Lovino had been utterly helpless to those puppy-dog eyes ever since. And it seemed he still was, if the indoor game of fetch was any indication of his indulgence.)

                I rap my knuckles lightly on the doorframe to get their attention.

                "Hi, Fran," Antonio greets brightly, holding a peeled potato in each hand.

                I smile in return, but it's tight. "Tonight is the full moon," I say, without pretense.

                The laugh-lines in Antonio's face smooth as his lips curl down in understanding. His jaw squares and tenses, and his jugular bobs as he swallows. I know exactly what he's thinking, what he's feeling, because I'm feeling it inside, too, even after a decade. I can see virility and eagerness in his bright, hungry eyes and the blush of vigor in his cheeks. He glances surreptitiously back at Lovino, then wordlessly invites me to talk outside.

                "Do you think it'll be a problem?" he asks when we're alone, keeping his voice low. "Do you think he'll..." He doesn't say the white wolf's name; he leaves the threat unsaid.

                I nod regrettably.

                "But he's passed a full moon already by the pup's side," Antonio argues weakly. "Maybe he can resist it?"

                "Mathieu was deathly ill the last time. He's healthy now," I say simply, with an unwelcome twist of relief and lament.

                Antonio pouts reflectively. He's the only wolf I know who pouts when he thinks deeply, when he remembers.

                Finally, I reveal the purpose of my visit. "Will you help me?" I ask him.

                "Of course," he says resolutely, a sigh in his voice. He knows as well as I do that tonight is going to be a very long, very memorable night.

* * *

**GILBERT**

By the time I return to the cottage, it's dark. The wild hours are drawing close, and not even faerie fire can fend off the convergence of night. I can feel it in my blood, growing hot, warming my skin. It makes me strong. I enter the cottage and can smell the sweetness of strawberries and cream, but, even more, I can smell the musky mating-lust in myself, proof of my desire and intent; proof of my value as an alpha. I wonder if the humans can smell it, too? But no, human noses are dull. I wish my scent was enough to communicate to Matthew what I want, but he's annoyingly—adorably—dense, so I resign myself to human communication, with its easily misinterpreted actions and clumsy words.

                Matthew and Alfred are standing together at the cooker, and Arthur sits in his chair by the fire, but Francis is nowhere in sight.

                A mind-numbing sweet aroma fills the cottage, but Matthew's scent is still more intoxicating. I can smell him tonight like I never have before, and it's the parched hunger of the greedy wolf in me that carries me across the room to him. I wrap my arms around his middle without permission, hugging him against me, and put my lips, and then my tongue to his jaw. He flinches, startled by the unexpected press of my body. His brother directs a rude comment at me and glares viciously, abandoning the cook-pot and raising the wooden spoon in attack, but Matthew defuses him. His laugh trembles with nerves as he peels himself away from me.

                "Um, Gilbert?" he says, putting distance between us.

                I lick my lips, my mouth wet for wanting him.

                " _Yes_?" I ask, huskier than intended. I clear my throat and try again. "Yes?"

                "Could you..." He blushes. "Could you maybe _not_ lick my face?" he asks politely, a bit timid.

                I can't help it, my mouth falls into a pout. I don't want to, but I can feel sulky disappointment rearrange my face. I can feel rejection and a stab of anger, too. "You don't want me to lick you—?" I ask, embarrassed by the pitch of my query; the yearning in my voice.

                Matthew purses his lips, and it's then I see him trying to hold back the laughter his violet eyes reveal. "Well," he muses teasingly, sneaking a look at me, "not my face."

                Oh, it's a joke! Francis and Antonio have explained jokes to me—games, that's what they are—and my heart swells happily to hear one from Matthew now. He's playing with me, he's _flirting_ with me. (Alfred had explained what _flirting_ was after an incident in town that left me growling jealously at a villager who bragged to Matthew.) _Flirting_ is a human courtship ritual alike claiming, yielding to another's advance. I like it very much.

                My mouth curls again into a grin and my fingers stretch, grabbing for him, but before I make contact, Arthur is beside us.

                "Matthew, a word," he orders, taking a hold of Matthew's arm.

                "I-I-I—okay," Matthew says, confused and helpless as Arthur tugs him into the back-garden, kicking the door shut behind them.

                I'm left alone with Alfred, whose demeanor is blatantly unfriendly. His body is closed, arms crossed, and his eyes glare.

                Annoyed, all I can think is: _What in the world have I done wrong now_?

* * *

**MATTHEW**

What are you doing?" asks Arthur accusingly.

                I stare at him, at a loss. "I-I—I'm sorry?" I offer half-heartedly.

                His expression is stiff with parental disapproval, eyes narrowed with suspicion. "I thought you weren't ready to accept Gilbert," he says; a statement, not a question. "I thought you were going to wait."

                "Oh my gods, Art," I exhale a breathless, embarrassed laugh. "It was just a joke—"

                "That's not how he interpreted it," Arthur cuts in, "and you know that. So," he repeats invasively, "what are you doing? Do you _want_ to mate with Gilbert?"

                " _What_? No! Of course not, I just... I mean, I don't know...

                "Maybe," I admit, speaking quietly to the ground. It's the first time I've admitted it out loud and I can feel my face and palms getting hot. "Is that... so bad?"

                I chance a glance at him and see reticence on his face.

                "If it's only once—" I hurry to clarify, but again he interrupts, firmer this time.

                "It won't be once, Matthew. Sex might mean little to you," he jabs, "but it means quite a lot to him, I promise. Not the act itself, but the meaning of it. If you consent to mate him, he'll understand it as you accepting his claim, his proposal. You'll be giving your consent to a union with him _forever_ ," he emphasizes. "Consider it marriage."

                "But _you_ said I don't have to decide!" I argue, feigning innocence and accusing him in a grasping attempt to reassign blame. "And _you've_ mated with Francis, haven't you? Does that mean _you're_ married?"

                He surprises me with an immediate: "Yes.

                "Not legally," he adds, noting my doubt. "He and I are simply betrothed by village law, but by the laws of the wild," he shrugs, "we've been _married_ for years. In fact, the only reason we bothered to make it official by human law was to end all of the judging questions about us living together unmarried." He rolls his eyes in scathing resentment. "As if it makes any bloody difference," he mutters.

                " _Urgh_!" I push my hands through my hair in frustration. " _Why didn't you tell us any of this_?" I demand. "It would've made everything _so much_ _easier_!"

                "No, it wouldn't," he dismisses my theatrics.

                "You said that I have a choice," I say seriously, straightening. "You said I could be with him without choosing to love him."

                "Yes," he says again, annoyingly calm, "I said it, because it's true. I'm sorry, pet, but I think you're confusing marriage with love. They're not mutually-exclusive, not in human culture and certainly not in the wild."

                "Neither is marriage and sex!" I counter.

                Arthur cocks an eyebrow at my fervent outburst, my desperation. I think he knows what I'm feeling inside— _oh gods_ , _how embarrassing_ —but he's kind enough not to point it out. He doesn't want to be having this conversation with me any more than I do, I realize.

                Instead, he says: "You're young," as if that excuses—or, at least explains—my behaviour. He says it like being young is concurrently a blessing and a curse, but also with a whisper of regret. Arthur is not old, but somehow I don't think he's ever been as young as me.

                "I'm sorry I've left you unprepared for all of this," he says. "I never wanted this for you. It's complicated, and you are not a complex person, Matthew."

                I frown, because I think he's insulted me, but I can't be sure, because his tone is gentle.

                "I'm not a child," I say defensively. "I'm sixteen."

                He laughs at that—actually laughs! A small, chuckled exhale escapes him and his eyes crinkle at the corners, habitually condescending.

                "Sixteen," he repeats nostalgically, "yes, of course."

                "Don't mock me—"

                "I'm not. I'm trying to help you."

                "Well— _don't_!" I snap, and instantly regret it. _Oh gods_ , _I sound like Al_. _Why do I feel so short-tempered_?

                Arthur merely stares at me, a little surprised but hardly intimidated.

                "I'm sorry," I say softly, ashamed of myself. I shrink back into myself, wrapping my arms around my middle. "I didn't mean to yell, I just... I don't know why, but I feel so... so..."

                "Wild?" Arthur supplies.

                I grab tightly at my sleeves. My heart is racing. "I don't know why," I repeat.

                "Yes, you do.

                "But, " he says, closing the distance between us, "it's not _entirely_ your fault."

                I feel his hand on my head, brushing back my curls. He hooks one behind my ear, provoking me to look up. He smiles.

                "Gilbert—?" I guess.

                "You're connected to him, Matthew, for better or worse. _This_ —" gently, he touches the claiming-mark on my neck, "—is proof of that. It's not an inherently physical connection, but there are certain... feelings," he says delicately, "that tend to pull more strongly."

                I swallow and divert my gaze. "Lust."

                "Lust, anger, loss," he confirms, "you'll feel all of these things as he does, to a degree. But you'll also feel joy and comfort and contentment and all of the good things, too. I told you magic wasn't involved in it, and it's not, not in the tangible way you're thinking. It's not a spell or charm that's making you feel things for Gilbert, nor is it any kind of intoxication from his bite. But there _is_ an element of nature, because you _are_ connected; not unlike the way human partners react to each other's emotions by proximity. It's just that with wolves it's more... it's _more_ ," he concludes, lost for a better description.

                I frown as I digest his words. The stubborn flyaway curl falls back into my face, but neither of us moves to fix it.

                "It's the full moon," he continues. "It effects the natural world in quite a forceful way, and wolves are much closer to the natural world than we are. It'll make him hungry tonight," he says, a warning in his tone.

                My heartbeat skips in excitement and fear. I'm certain I know the answer, but I want his verbal confirmation, so I ask: "What does that mean?"

                Arthur takes a moment to lick his lips, buying time. He doesn't want to tell me. He wants to protect me from the knowledge, wants to keep me ignorant to preserve my innocence, but his fear is moot. It has been for a while. Al and I are not children anymore and he knows this, as much as it worries him; worried, because he can feel the control of us slipping from his grasp and it scares him. But after a lamented moment, he surrenders to the reality of what I've become, of the situation itself, and he speaks.

                "The full moon will make the wolf in Gilbert more potent tonight—not physically, but the desires of the wild will become stronger, maddeningly so. It's dangerous. Francis used to leave us on nights of the full moon to protect us from himself, because he knew what might happen if he stayed. He knew that he couldn't control himself."

                "He became— _violent_?" I'm bewildered. I don't believe it. I can't. I can't imagine Francis ever losing control of himself and hurting us. But Arthur's face is uncommonly transparent.

                "It's not a violence they understand," he says diplomatically. "A wolf who doesn't understand humans, how a human thinks and feels won't consider it a negative experience. They don't do it to hurt us, or dominate us. They just don't..."

                "Understand," I finish soberly. "Did Francis ever—?"

                "No, no," Arthur shakes his head vehemently. Then he deflates a little, and reveals: "But Antonio did."

                " _Lovino_?" My hand flies to my mouth in shock.

                "Antonio is not like Francis," Arthur says carefully. "I don't think he'll ever be able to completely control the wolf inside of himself. I don't think he'll ever truly become a human, because it's not what his heart wants. As much as he loves Lovino, he loves the wild too, and that's not something he can just surrender. It's who he is; it's what _makes_ him who he is. And I think Gilbert is the same.

                "Which is why I'm worried for you," he admits. He runs both hands up my biceps to my shoulders and settles there, squeezing. "I know what it is you're feeling for him tonight. I know how thrilling and tempting it is, but I really, _really_ caution restraint, pet, because the night of the full moon isn't when you want to make that kind of commitment. Trust me."

                I feel choked by what he's shared. Fear mingles with the other, _wilder_ feelings burning inside of me, and now I'm conflicted.

                "Was Lovino okay?" I manage to ask.

                "Yes," Arthur affirms confidently. "It wasn't an attack, he gave Antonio consent. But it was confused consent, and it was a mistake."

                "Was it their first time—?"

                "Unfortunately, yes. Lovino and Antonio didn't know each other for very long before they mated, not nearly as long as you and Gilbert have. It happened very fast for them, and, while I'm glad it worked out, I can't help feeling sad about the process. It was a reckless and violent courtship full of force and passion and screams and tears and not something I want for you."

                I nod meekly. What else can I do?

                "Are you alright?" Arthur probes, looking more parental now in his tenderness than in his stern reprimands.

                I take a moment to consider, and I'm about to say: _yes_ , _I think so_ , when the cottage door crashes open.

                Gilbert stalks out with a feral look in his eyes and teeth in his smile. Inside, Al is sprawled on the floor of the room, wide-eyed and rubbing his cheek, which is red. His stunned state doesn't last long, though. He scrambles to his feet with a flood of filthy vulgarities and a growl big enough to rival the wolves', but Gilbert ignores him. He grabs the door and thrusts it back, slamming it closed on Al's anger. It's a short, hapless diversion, but it locks Al inside long enough for Gilbert to reach Arthur and I. He's breathing hard, his snow-white skin flushed pink and warm with sweat. If he was a human, I'd describe him as _hot and bothered_ , but he's not a human right now; he's a wolf in human-skin, more than I've ever seen. Heat rolls off his tall body, and as he flexes his muscles, tense and wiry, I can practically see the strength coursing through his veins. He licks his wet lips, eyes focused intently on me—only me; nobody has ever looked at me like this before—and just like that I'm caught by him, completely transfixed.

                " _Stop_!" Arthur says, and his hand is on my chest.

                His hand is pressed firmly to my chest, pushing back, because I've taken a step toward Gilbert without even realizing it.

                " _Gilbert_ ," he warns, standing between us, but the wolf doesn't slow. Maybe he can hear the fear in Arthur's voice; maybe he can smell weakness in his scent. Maybe he knows that the silver whistle was left inside.

                Arthur faces the wolf—twice my cousin's size, and looking even bigger tonight—and opens his mouth again to speak, to spell-cast, but a powerful blow to the head sends him flying.

                It snaps me back to myself and I shriek.

                I clap both hands to my mouth and stumble back in bewilderment, frightened of the white wolf like I haven't been since the night he bit me.

                " _Mattie_!" Al yells.

                Gilbert's blood-red eyes are bright and unblinking. A rumbling growl spills past his teeth, along with a single, possessive word:

                " _Mine_."

                I shake my head, tears gathering in my eyes, but my voice gets stuck in my throat. _No_ , _no—please_. _This isn't my wolf. This selfish_ , _violent beast isn't_ my _wolf_!

                " _My Matthew_ ," he growls, and reaches for me.          

* * *

**GILBERT**

_Mine_."

                The single word reverberates inside of me like a song. It purrs like a carnal pleasure, the way I want to make Matthew purr for me. In my mind, I hear his soft, breathless voice gasping in my ears. I feel his smooth, yielding skin under my groping hands, quivering beneath the weight of my body. I smell his sweet, pure scent, which I'll soon rob of its purity and it makes me groan. It makes me mad with want for him. He's there, standing in the snowy garden, so, so beautiful, so gods damned delicious. I want to taste him, drag my tongue all over him. I want to hold him and kiss him and mount him. I won't hurt him. I'd never hurt him. I just want him to be my mate— _my precious mate_ —because I've been waiting for him for _such a long time_.

                I can't wait any longer. My heart is already beating so hard, it'll burst if I can't make him mine.

                _Mine. My human-boy. I want my human-boy now_!

                I'm seething and salivating as I cross the garden, because I'm sick of people preventing me from taking what is mine. How dare they presume to match my strength! How dare they question my devotion! I do not belong to them. I am not their pet, not their project. I am an alpha, and I will have what is _mine_!

                " _Gilbert_ ," trembles the fey-child, placing himself between me and what's _mine._

                He's scared— _finally_ he's frightened of me. I love his fear; it makes me powerful. And gods! I hate his ethereal scent the most, this fey-witch!

                _Get out of my way_.

                 The thought briefly crosses my mind before the back of my hand connects with his head, sending him flying. Ha! He weights nothing at all! He is no alpha! He is _nothing_ compared to me!

                But Matthew is everything. He is everything my heart howls for.

                He's in front of me now, soft and quiet, meek and yielding, and I can see my reflection in the violet of his big, beautiful eyes. Like me, he smells like lust and it fuels me.

                A growl presses past my lips; a rumble of desire.

                _Do not be afraid_ , _my songbird. I will not hurt you. I will never hurt you again. You are my precious_ , _chosen mate and I love you._

_I will love you and you will be mine forever._

                " _My Matthew_ ," I say happily, and reach for him.

* * *

**ANTONIO**

I can smell the mating-lust before we reach the garden. It's offensive and unapologetically potent. It wrinkles my nose and doubles my pace.

                I fight the urge to transform—four legs are faster than two—but Francis is racing as a human, and so must I. I followed his lead back to the cottage, walking, until we heard Gilbert's growl, Matthew's outcry; until we smelled the lust and violence and fear.

                I leap the evergreen hedge and reach Gilbert first.

                I grab him by the shoulders and yank him back, taking him by surprise. A moment later, Francis is between his pack-members and the vicious white wolf, both hands planted on Gilbert's chest to force him back, away from Matthew and Arthur. Gilbert rages. He jerks and growls, but I lock my arms around him, under his, and half-drag him backwards. It's not easy—he's not light; his body is fit, muscles corded like a rope—but I'm in a more advantageous position. He kicks his legs and whips his arms, slashing the air with hands curled like claws. But his growls are worse, loud and long and deep, yet piercing. They shatter the silence of night. He'll alert the village if we don't quiet him; he'll endanger us all. But his teeth snap and gnash, wet with saliva, and I can't get my footing. Francis can't make him stop. And his eyes— _gods_! Those red, red eyes bulge like a creature possessed.

                " _Let go_!" he snarls, fighting Francis and I as we drag him away. " _Let me go_! _He's mine—my Matthew_! _Let go of me_ , _I'll kill you both_!

                " _HE'S MINE_!"

                Matthew is crying, now. I can see the tears—smell the salty tears—on his face in the full, shining moonlight.

                The moon has given Gilbert brutal strength tonight. But it's given Francis and I strength, too.

                " _Shut up_!" I yell at him, losing my temper. " _Just shut the hell up you selfish_ , _arrogant_ , _ex-alpha reject_!"

                Gilbert is momentarily taken aback, but then he howls in outrage and his whole body shivers. I can feel him start to change and I tighten my grasp, digging my fingers into his shifting skin, trying to prevent what I know I can't.

                I meet Francis' eyes and we agree. We need to take Gilbert away from here—far, far away. And we need to do it as wolves.

                "Alfred!" he shouts urgently. "Get inside and barricade the doors!"

                Alfred is helping a dazed-looking Arthur to his feet, an arm securely around his waist as the fey-child sways, but he pauses long enough to confirm Francis' order with a determined nod. Matthew is standing beside him, frozen, it seems. But he flinches when Alfred grabs his forearm and instinctively tries to get free. In a panic, he pulls—pulls _toward_ Gilbert for one confused second, but Alfred's strength jerks him back, breaking the spell. He herds Arthur and Matthew into the cottage and slams the door.

                " _You're going to regret this_!" Gilbert is growling as the last of his human-voice falls away.

                Seconds later, Francis and I are trying to restrain a snapping, snarling wolf the size of a mountain pony. I try to hold him, but he lashes out and seizes Francis' arm in his maw. It wrenches me violently, and Francis' yell echoes. I lose my hold on Gilbert's thick, lupine body and crash to the ground.

                I rise again on four sturdy legs as a dense, brown-furred wolf. I, too, become a snapping, snarling thing that launches itself at Gilbert with renewed vigor. I seize his ruff between my teeth and tug viciously, digging my claws into the ice and hunching my shoulders. I sink low to the ground, holding the white wolf as he lashes like a whip. I ground myself and drag him with the brute strength and anger of a bull. The white wolf is bigger than me, faster than me, but he is _not_ stronger. I take a step backwards, then two, three, four—then his growls are saturated with yelps and yips as his claws slide across the ice and my teeth sink ever deeper. Francis pushes him, too, butting and blocking Gilbert, avoiding his powerful jaws and meeting every vicious snap with the determination of an infuriated parent.

                Together, he and I bully the thrashing white wolf—my poor new friend, helpless to the moon's thrall—across the garden, away from the cottage and fragile human-beings, and into the trees.

* * *

**GILBERT**

Get off— _get off of me_!" I snarl as the wolf falls away. As a man, I shove at them, the pets who have forced me deep into the forest, far away from the cottage. I can't smell Matthew from this distance, and the fervor of mating-lust has ebbed within me, leaving me surly and frustrated, and I blame them for it. I hate them for it!

                "Gil," says Antonio, shifting. His browned skin, flush and glistening with sweat, is stark against the snow that surrounds us, his hands outstretched in a placating manner. "You've got to calm down, okay? Take a deep breath."

                I glare at him, at them both.

                "Gilbert," Francis warns, standing a little behind Antonio's vanguard, rich as a marigold, fair and blue-eyed as cornflowers. His long blonde curls billow and float on the breeze, circling his head like a halo. His voice is calm—on the outside, at least—but those blue eyes bear into me with a shallow, spiteful fury that implies an impressive deal of self-control to contain.

                _Oh_ , _right_ , _I struck his mate_ , I recall vaguely. _And I struck Alfred_ , _his adopted pup_. _I attacked Francis' pack-members_ , _even though I promised not to._

                The beast-part of me still thinks they deserved it for standing between Matthew and I, but the louder human-part regrets it.

                Slowly, I take the advised deep breath and hold it for a moment in my lungs, cold and sobering. I do it again, after exhaling. I do it several times, and it clears my head.

                Antonio nods his approval. "Good," he affirms, but his words don't reflect his tone, which is firm. There's still a growl in his lyrical voice. He doesn't move toward me, because he doesn't trust me yet. He keeps a distance between us, staying out of striking-range and in front of Francis. The three of us are standing in a skeletal glade in the forest, where we're unlikely to encounter any human or animal, but the chocolate wolf's body is tensed, ready to spring into action at the slightest provocation. He looks physically bigger tonight, everything from his reflective eyes to his husky growl to the way he stands, his broad, flat muscles flexed and his toes curling into the snow. He's stronger and wilder, more wolfish than I've ever seen him. We all are. Even the pretty, pampered tawny wolf looks volatile tonight.

                "I know you're upset," Antonio says after a long, testy pause.

                I don't reply. I consider re-taking my wolf-form as a sign of protest to their patronizing, but I don't. I want to hear what they have to say. I want to know _why_ they stopped me mating Matthew.

                It's _they_ who permitted me to pursue him, after all. It's _they_ who have been helping me court him. So—why?

                "I know how you're feeling, how frustrated you are," Antonio acknowledges, the aggression falling off of him like snowfall. His green eyes beseech me, now. "I know, because I feel it too. I should be with my mate tonight, my Lovi. And Fran should be with Arthur, but instead we're here with you."

                " _Why_?" I demand. "Why did you both intervene? Why did you bring me here? I wanted to be with my mate tonight, like you do, but you—"

                "Mathieu is _not_ your mate," Francis snaps. "He's _my_ pack-member, _my_ pup. It's _my_ mate who's the alpha of our pack, Gilbert, or have you forgotten?"

                " _I do not need his permission_ ," I growl between my teeth.

                Francis doesn't verbally reply, but nor does he recoil. His blue eyes glare at me, challenging me, like Alfred's did in the cottage. It's that glare that made me lash-out.

                "Gil," Antonio ventures again, "it's not just for Matt's safety that we stepped in. It's for _you_ , too. It's for _your_ benefit that we brought you here. Right, Fran?"

                Francis shoots Antonio a betrayed look, but Antonio chooses not to see it.

                "None of us want to see Matt get hurt," he soldiers on, "but we— _I_ ," he amends, "don't want you to get hurt, either. I don't want you to carry the guilt and regret of recklessness... like I do. I mated my Lovi for the first time on a night of the full moon, and... I shouldn't have," he admits, "because I hurt him, and I didn't even realize I was doing it. That's the worst part: I didn't even _realize_ it until it was too late. I made him hurt and I made him cry," he chokes out with difficulty, "and for a long, long time, I didn't know what I had done wrong. I didn't know why he wouldn't look at me, or let me touch him. It made me angry and confused and..." He grimaces, like he doesn't want to say it aloud. "It made me resent Lovi's humanity. I wanted him to be a wolf, because a wolf wouldn't have cared so much, so deeply. A wolf wouldn't have hated me for mating him."

                "Lovino has never hated you," Francis gently intervenes, looking tenderly at Antonio like he's never looked at me.

                Antonio covers his face for a minute, and takes a deep, wet breath through his mouth. When he emerges, his expression is resolute.

                "Mating Lovi that night is the single biggest regret of my life," he tells me truthfully. "I wish I'd had someone there to stop me."

                "So, what?" I grunt after a pause. "This is a favour you're doing me, then? Keeping me from Matthew?"

                Antonio nods.

                Francis says: "Humans are delicate, Gilbert—"

                "Yes, yes, I know!" I snap, but it's the bite of impatience, not anger, because the fight has fled my body. As much as I detest their meddling, I can't look at the chocolate wolf's sad green eyes now without pity. His wounds are too honest.

                With a frustrated huff, I scrub my hands through my hair ( _it feels a lot better when Matthew does it_ , I note). "Gods," I mutter, "humans are the only species who think coupling is something to be ashamed of."

                "It's not shame," Francis corrects firmly, "it's carefulness. There's no shame in wanting to protect yourself, physically _and_ emotionally."

                I frown. " _Emotion-ally_?"

                "Yes, _feelings_ ," he emphasizes. "It's, like... how do you feel when forced to yield to someone else? You don't like it, do you?" he asks rhetorically. "It's difficult, it feels wrong, doesn't it? Well, that's how we make our mates feel when we don't consider their well-beings. It's they who submit to us while mating. If they don't feel comfortable—if they don't feel safe," he rephrases, "they don't like it. It's not good for them, and, frankly, not as good for us either. It's not something to scoff at, Gilbert," he scolds, reading suspicion in my wrinkled nose.

                I shake my head defiantly. "Coupling is just _coupling_ ," I say logically. "It's claiming ownership of a mate. It's an _act_ , not a _feeling_."

                "Between wolves, yes," he admits. "But mating a human is different. It's _more_. I... I really can't explain it," he says, glancing helplessly at Antonio, who shrugs meekly. "It's just something you have to experience for yourself, then you'll understand."

                "And _how_ exactly am I supposed to experience it if you won't ever let me near Matthew?" I argue, crossing my arms. "You're both _hypocrites_ ," I say, proud to know this human word, which describes the very _human_ concept of saying one thing but doing another.

                It's Francis' turn to sigh, though his sounds weary. "It's complicated," he says unhelpfully.

                "It's... Matt's happiness," Antonio says hesitantly. Francis and I both regard him with curiosity. He shrinks a little in embarrassment, but continues: "Matt's happiness is something you want, right, Gil? It's something that you're conscious of, something you understand—?'

                I think of Matthew's smile, his laugh, the glow in his eyes when he looks at me with affection. It's the scent of him when he's warm and content, a sweetness that can't be reproduced by bakery or witchery. It's the way he touches me without fear; the feel of him pressed against me, his heart beating in rhythm with mine.

                I swallow and nod. "I think so," I say, softer than intended.

                "Well," says Antonio thoughtfully. He licks his lips, speaking to the snow. "If you force Matt into mating with you—or, into anything he doesn't want—you're going to kill that happiness, maybe forever."

                "That's not what I want."

                "We know," Francis says, and, finally, he approaches me. He stops right in front of me and places a hand on my shoulder. " _That's_ why we brought you here."

                I understand, now. Or—I think I do. I'm trying to, but it's hard to think like a human with human _emotions_. It's hard to think of something as basic as mating as something intangible, with lasting feelings and effects. But I _want_ to understand, and I think—I hope—that makes a difference.

                "I need to run," I say, brushing off Francis' hand.

                The tawny wolf nods in approval. As grateful as I am for their advice—I think—I'm not going to thank them for it, and he knows that.

                The chocolate wolf gives me a coy, jittery smile, full of repressed energy, and asks: "Can we join you?"

                I regard them for a moment, looking from cornflower-blue eyes to spring-green and, slowly, let a competitive grin curl my lips.

                "If you can keep up," I challenge.

* * *

**MATTHEW**

I'm alone in my bedroom, sitting alone on my bed. It feels too big without Gilbert beside me, even though it's not. It's a single-bed, and when Gilbert _is_ in it I sleep between he and the wall, squished against his chest, curled into his body. I sit on the bed with my legs pulled to my chest, making myself small even though the wolf isn't here. He's gone. He's out in the wilderness somewhere, running the woods far beyond my reach. And I'm jealous. A part of me is grateful to Arthur and Al for closing me inside, preventing me from making the same mistake Lovino allegedly did, but a bigger part is jealous of Gilbert's freedom tonight, because I want out.

                I want _him_.

                I sigh, shake my head. I shrug off the blanket Al draped over my shoulders, a sign of his concern, because I'm too hot for it tonight. I look down at the book braced against my thighs and try to concentrate. It's a book of folklore, one I love, but I've read the same sentence five times when a soft knock sounds at the door.

                "Yes?" I call distractedly, expecting Al or Arthur.

                Lovino steps tentatively inside. "Hello," he says, uncharacteristically formal. He's swimming in Antonio's old coat, the sleeves bunched at his forearms, his fingertips peeking out the cuffs. It falls to his knees, a drab olive-green garment intended for garden work, but he wears it like a hug from his wolf.

                I sit up, cross-legged. "Oh, hello." Pause. "Um, Art's in his bedroom if—"

                "Actually, I want to talk to you," he says, walking to my bed and perching on the edge. He doesn't wait for me to accept his company, or invite him to speak. "Al came into the village for tea, for Arthur. He told me what happened. I just wanted to make sure you're alright."

                It's a question, but he doesn't phrase it as one. He's not looking at me, but at his hands, picking at the fraying strings of Antonio's coat sleeves.

                "O-oh," I say, unable to hide my surprise.

                Lovino and I have never had a heart-to-heart conversation before. Lovino and I rarely talked together at all before Gilbert came into my life. I suppose it's a shared experience that draws us together now, the way he and Arthur must have been drawn together by Antonio's arrival four years ago. Why else would the wealthy, high-born associate with the village outcasts? I wonder what he and Arthur must have suffered together to result in the trust and familial loyalty—pack-mentality—they share now. Lovino is someone I've always associated with privilege and self-confidence, but maybe I'm wrong? Maybe he was once just as scared and uncertain as I am? Looking at him, I can't not remember what Arthur confided to me about Lovino and Antonio's courtship, and I suddenly see a boy only five years my senior, tormented and fragile and lost.

                A flood of guilt washes through me then, because Lovino has suffered so much more than I did; more than I probably ever will, and yet he's here, in my bedroom, asking if _I'm_ okay.

                "Yes," I say meekly, looking down as well. "Arthur explained it all to me. I understand that tonight was just... just an accident."

                He nods, relieved that he's dodged the need to lecture me on full moons and mating-lust—not quite _the talk_ most youths get from their parents, I expect—but his gold-ringed eyes are pointed when they finally lift.

                "It wasn't an accident, Matt, it was an impulse. A primal, urgent impulse that lives inside of them always."

                "Well, yes," I acknowledge, "but Gilbert didn't intend to scare us. It was just a lapse in judgement, a brief loss of self-control. I think he'll be okay now."

                Lovino scowls. "I'm not worried about Gilbert, Matt. He's a wolf, it's his fault, intentional or not. I'm worried about _you_. Are _you_ okay with what happened?"

                "Yes," I repeat for the umpteenth time, defense creeping into my tone. Yes, I'm fine with what happened. The truth is, if my family hadn't been there to prevent it, I would have done a whole lot _more_.

                And I probably would have regretted it.

                I deflate a little, and say in a softer, more grateful tone: "I'm perfectly fine, Lovino. Gilbert didn't hurt me, he just startled me. I just wasn't expecting it."

                "Well, _start_ expecting it," Lovino says, standing again, "because it happens every month."

                I assumed this for myself, but I must look unsettled by it, because his scowl melts into his relaxed, trademark smirk, and he adds:

                "Oh, don't fret, you'll learn to read the signs soon enough. It's pretty obvious when a wolf's feeling randy," he teases, and sticks out his tongue. "They make no attempts to hide it. You'll learn to recognize the little things he does leading up to a full moon, and you'll know if it's safe for him to stay with you or not. If it's not, he'll have to go away for the night. You'll have to be firm about that—make him swear it," he suggests. "Wolves take oaths very seriously.

                "If it _is_ safe for him to stay..." His lips curl deviously as he eyes me, eyebrows arched. "Mating during the full moon is quite an experience. Not the first time. Or second, or third. But sometimes, when it feels right," he says with a twinkle in his eye, "it can be really amazing."

                I smile a little and blush a lot. "How will I know when it's _right_?" I risk asking.

                Lovino just grins. "You'll know," he confides, and, on that note, he takes his leave.

* * *

**GILBERT**

A day passes, then two. The pale, waning moon is rising again when I emerge from the trees and see the thatched little cottage, its windows aglow with candlelight. Francis and Antonio returned to their mates early yesterday morning, but I elected to stay in the woods of my own volition. In truth, I had scared myself a little the night before, losing my self-control like a thoughtless beast, and I didn't trust myself to see Matthew again so soon. I needed time to process what I would do and say to him upon my return; to determine _how_ to say it; to put my _emotions_ into words that I might try to explain. It took me a long, long time to fabricate a speech that didn't begin with a begging, _please don't hate me_! It took me even longer to practice it, because the words felt heavy on my tongue.

                It's been forty-eight hours since I was forcibly dragged off, but I can't keep myself away any longer, so what I do have, rude and unpolished, will have to be enough.

                Gods, I hope it's enough.

                Alfred is outside, fetching water from the well. It never freezes and tastes of faerie magic. When he sees me, he stops and stands stiffly, his shotgun slung over his shoulder.

                I stop, too. "I—I'm sorry," I say, testing the words on Alfred. "I struck you, and I'm sorry—"

                He makes a wet, toothy noise: " _Tch_."

                He puts the water bucket down and crosses his arms over his chest, closing himself, protecting himself. "Just so you know," he says, tone unfriendly. His blue eyes are hard, like the steel of his tools. He's a pup with the heart of a brawler, and if he were a wolf I would be wary of challenging him. (He would make a good wolf; a hunter I would be proud to claim as my pack-member.) "Even if everyone else forgives you for what you did—for _everything_ you've done to us—it doesn't mean I do, because I don't. I _don't_ like you," he snarls, getting louder. "And you're going to have to do a lot more than say _I'm sorry_ to earn my approval."

                I stare at the impassioned, blue-eyed pup, my mate's stalwart brother. The brother Matthew loves more than anyone else. The brother I've been jealous of without realizing it.

                "What must I do then?" I ask him seriously, never taking my eyes off of his.

                All creatures reveal their intents in their eyes, and Alfred is no exception. He's surprised by my question; his boyish face reveals it. Honestly, I'm surprised too, because—suddenly—I _want_ Alfred to like me. I _want_ his approval. And I'm willing to do almost anything to get it.

                He's silent for a minute, then his arms fall limply to his sides. He's cagey, but his blue eyes have softened.

                "Just be good to my brother," he says.

* * *

I leave Alfred to his task at the well and go inside.

                I realize, too late, that I should have knocked—I always forget that particular social grace—because Francis is on his feet and baring his teeth the moment I step inside. He stands in front of Arthur, disrupting my view of the fey-child, who sits at his place by the fireside. It's a domestic scene I've interrupted; tea-cakes with strawberry jam beckon from a trey, and embroidery needles go still at my entrance.

                I waste no time. If I stop to think about what I need to do, I won't do it.

                I swallow my pride and sink to my knees. I press my fists to the floor, bow my head, and pray for their mercy.

                "Francis," says Arthur calmly. I don't hear the command in his quiet voice, but evidently the tawny wolf does, because he hesitantly steps aside.

                The fey-child's face is bruised. He could heal it if he wanted to—I know he could, I've seen his skills—but he doesn't, and I wonder why. I wonder why he looks so pale.

                Instinctively, my gaze flicks to Francis.

                If someone struck Matthew, I would serve them much, much worse in return. I would lose myself to fury. But Francis merely stares at me, reticently studying my vulnerable figure stooped on the floor. His restraint is unnerving and, at the same time, amazing. It secretly impresses me more than anything else he is or does. But it's not nearly as unsettling as the puzzle of the fey-child's expression.

                "I'm sorry... alpha." It's a growl forced out between my teeth. "I shouldn't have struck you. I was not myself, I was angry... but that's no excuse."

                I glance uncertainly at Francis, who nods.

                Arthur's reply is short. "I understand, and I forgive you, Gilbert."

                Then he says: "Come here."

                I hesitate, looking again to Francis for guidance. Again he nods and watches silently as I approach his mate. I kneel in front of Arthur, keeping my gaze downcast. My hands are fisted, a detail Francis notes with suspicion. I know this, because he comes to stand behind me, looming over me in a way that makes me very uncomfortable, but I resist the urge to move away.

                "I want you to know," Arthur says, ignoring the tension between his mate and I, "we're not unsympathetic to your struggles, Gilbert. We all know how difficult it's been for you, but, you're right," he scolds, "that's no excuse for violence. And if you ever strike a member of our pack again..." He smiles and places a hand on my head, stroking me gently. It feels nice. It makes my eyelids droop a little, drawing me into false comfort for a brief moment before he completes his icy threat: "I will _fucking neuter you_."

                I swallow and duck my head. "Uh, y-yes... alpha."

                "Good." The fey-child is still smiling. "Francis, love—?"

                "Yes," Francis agrees, ambiguously accepting the terms of his mate's forgiveness.

                Arthur gives my head a final, condescending pat. (I hate how good it feels.) "There's one more apology you need to make," he says.

* * *

**MATTHEW**

May I come in?" Gilbert asks, lingering in the bedroom doorway. His eyes look soft around the edges and don't meet mine; instead, they seize upon my hands.

                "Yes, of course," I say, sitting straighter, hoping I don't look or sound too eager. "How are you feeling?"

                "I don't know," he admits, slipping inside and closing the door behind him. He looks lost in the middle of the room, too big for the small, close space. He's wearing soft, weathered cotton, but it hangs off his long body lopsidedly, like the garments were a hurried afterthought for my comfort. And he's clean, too. His hair gleams like mercury, and his scent is sharp and fresh and masculine.

                "Matthew," he asks in a halting, shy voice unlike his own, "do you—hate me?"

                " _Hate you_?" I repeat, flabbergasted. "No, of course not. Why would you think such a thing?"

                "Because I hurt you," he says honestly. "I hurt your feelings, I think. I scared you and I attacked your family, and I wish I hadn't, and I'm really, really sorry. I didn't understand why it was wrong before, but I do now, and I won't do it again, I promise," he says in a jumble.

                "It's okay," I tell him gently, honestly. "Really, Gilbert. Francis explained it—the _pull_ of the full moon. I know that wasn't really you."

                "But it _is_ me," he corrects, a note of urgency in his voice. "It's a part of me that I can't fully control, a part that probably won't ever go away. But I promise I won't let it hurt you ever again. I just want you to be happy."

                This last is said softly, a near whisper.

                "Thank-you, Gilbert.

                "I forgive you," I add, because that seems to be what he wants.

                He relaxes a fraction and finally looks me in the face. "I keep making mistakes," he confesses, "but I really do love you, Matthew. More than anything."

                I'm smiling, now. I can't stop it. My heart is fluttering happily. "I know," I say, and shift sideways in the bed.

                He understands my wordless invitation and smiles a little, too, as he slides onto the mattress beside me. He's careful not to make contact at first, but at my touch the tension goes out of him and he settles comfortably against me. It's a good feeling for us both, and though my heart is racing in my chest, I feel peaceful for the first time in two days.

                "What are you reading?" he asks, peering down at the book in my lap.

                "Oh, just folktales," I tell him. I love the way his voice rumbles over my skin. "Arthur used to read them to us when we were younger. I guess I never grew out of them."

                "Stories?"

                "Yes," I nod, then prattle off a list of titles: " _The Frog Prince_ , _Troll Bridge_ , _Little Red_ , _The Changelings_ , _The Snow Queen_..." I stop, because he's looking blankly at me, not a lick of recognition in his sleepy red eyes. "You've not read them?" I ask.

                "I can't read." He taps the half-open page, shrugging. "This is a human language, human words. I don't know what the symbols mean."

                "Oh," I say, stupidly, because why had I expected otherwise? Gilbert's voice is flavoured with a thick accent. He can barely speak our language properly; why would I think he could read it? Francis can't, and he's been playing at human-life for over a decade.

                I'm feeling embarrassed by my blunder, when he says: "Why do you need to write them down, the stories? Can't you remember them?"

                I'm charmed by the curiosity in his raspy voice, the easy, shameless innocence of the query, logic wrapped in doubt.

                I laugh, and say: "Not in such detail." I tap the open page. "Recording the story means it can be told forever without changing."

                "Is that important?" He seems puzzled, too used to the fluidity of oral traditions, I expect.

                "I don't know. I suppose—? Why the sudden interest?"

                "Because," he says, squaring his posture, lifting his sharp chin, "I'm trying to understand your culture, and I know that these symbols—these words—are important to you. And... I want to know about everything that's important to you, Matthew."

                A long, bashful pause stretches and neither of us knows what to say or where to look. He breaks it by asking:

                "Will you read them to me?"

                His cautious gaze flicks from the illustrated page to my face and he smiles; a little sheepish, but determined.

                I return his smile, lean closer into him, and lift the book.

                " _Once upon a time_..." I read.

* * *

**FRANCIS**

The cottage is bathed in soft, yellow candlelight. It falls across Arthur's slumbering face and makes his fine, short hair look like spun-gold. It softens, somehow rounds his face and makes his eyelashes shine. He's always been beautiful when he sleeps, and tonight is no exception. His intention had been to await Alfred's safe return from the village, but sleep soon overtook him, and now he sits slumped in his chair by the fireside with his forgotten needlework in his lap. It's been a very long day, a long week, a long couple of months for him and he's tired. He's sacrificed a lot of himself to keep us all safe over the years and it's finally taking a permanent toll. Nothing too noticeable: a line in his face, a catch in his breath, a stiffness to the way he moves despite his relative youth. He's aging faster than the average human and I wish I could tell him to stop. I wish I could say: _Enough with the faerie magic_! _Just let it go_ , _Arthur_ , _it's killing you_! but we've had that unhappy discussion so many times before, it's become as exhausted as he is. I pity my mate, but I don't love him any less because of it.

                _Human love_ , I think, tucking a wool blanket around him. A wolf would never think the way I do, now. A wolf would consider a weakening, aging mate a liability. _Human love_ is entirely illogical.

                _Will Antonio resent his mate's humanity someday_? I wonder. _Will Gilbert_?

                I hope not, but they're both a lot more wolfish than I. Maybe in time they'll come to understand humans as I do. Maybe if they have pups— _babies_ —of their own someday, they'll be able to learn and grow with them, as I've learnt and grown with Alfred and Mathieu. Maybe they'll begin to see themselves reflected in their mates, and—

                I stop, my hands hovering over Arthur. It's quiet in the cottage, and without the familial bickering of Arthur and Alfred, I can actually hear Mathieu's soft, unobtrusive voice drifting between the cracks in the bedroom door. It's continuous and unhurried, like a lullaby.

                Slowly, I creep to the door and silently turn the knob, then peek through. Alfred would call it _intrusive_ , but I don't care. I'm enthralled by my pup's voice, and dead-curious to know why Mathieu suddenly has so much to say. He doesn't use his voice as much as other humans do, and I'm ashamed to admit that I've never noticed it's beauty before. But as I take in the quiet scene, I realize that Mathieu is not talking or singing: he's reading to Gilbert, who lies beside him on the narrow bed. The white wolf's long, limp figure is stretched out, his feet dangling off the end, and his head is resting on a pillow, his forehead pressed to Mathieu's arm. His eyes are closed and his lips curled in contentment as he lets my pup read him a story that sounds like a song.

                It's— _sweet_ , I think in surprise. I can hear affection in Mathieu's voice and it quiets my concern.

                Gilbert's nose twitches then, and he opens his eyes. I haven't made a sound, but he knows I'm here and looks right at me. He's very aware of his surroundings and is always prepared for danger. This morning, it still worried me—his aggression; his fast reflexes; how quick he leaps to decisions—but now, seeing them together like claimed mates, it comforts me to know that Mathieu is so well guarded. Gilbert has made a lot of mistakes, but he's here now, lying next to Mathieu in his human-form, listening to a foreign tale spoken in a language that he barely understands, and it's all for the pup— _the boy_ —that he loves.

                _A human love_ , I think, and know then that I've always been hoping for this very picture: my Mathieu, happy.

                Gilbert's sleepy red gaze meets mine and, slowly, I nod my head in approval. Then I retreat, bidding them a silent goodnight.


	12. Eleven

**ALFRED**

I'm in the public-house having an ale when I hear the butcher's voice, loud despite its hushed inflection of secrecy.

                " _A beast big as a mountain pony with eyes like red-fire_!" Cal's telling his companions.

                He's well into his cups, telling hunting tales to an audience of enraptured sycophants. He always has a crowd around him in the village, especially in here, where the unfortunate spoils of his hunts adorn the walls, staring back with sightless eyes. It's not my preferred decorative style, but it never used to bother me. Now, I can't see the wolf heads on the walls without seeing Francis, my father; Antonio, my friend; and Gilbert—well, I don't know what Gilbert is to me yet, but I don't want to see his head mounted, for Mattie's sake. I assume it's hunting tales that spill from Cal's loose lips, until I hear my brother's name:

                "Mattie's been taken in by it, bewitched by it. It walks as a man, but it's a beast," he says, and now there's no doubt that he's referring to Gilbert. I recall that he saw Gilbert transform the night of the Midwinter Festival. Has he been spreading rumours of witchcraft ever since? I thought Arthur had disillusioned the crowd, but perhaps his faerie charm was too weak to penetrate Cal's thick scull?

                _No_ , I realize, _he was unconscious when Arthur cast his spell_. _He had fainted_. _The spell didn't affect him. He remembers everything he saw that night_.

                "They're strange folk who live in that cottage, cursed," says an old, grizzled hunter. "Arthur's one what's been in trouble since he'd been a lad, always sneaking. Disappeared, too, you know. Not long after his Mama died— _witch_ ," he spits on the floor. "Mark me," he wags his gnarled finger, "that lad's got sorcery in his veins. Never should have let him take in Al and Mattie; should have gone to a decent family, those two. Too late, now," he grunts in regret.

                "You're right about Arthur," Cal acknowledges, "but wrong to think it's too late. The twins are young still. Al's got a good head, it's just been filled with unholy faerie tricks. Once the witch is gone, he'll be fine. And Mattie—" he pauses, a steely gleam in his eye, "—he's malleable, he's meek. He just needs a husband's guidance; a bit of discipline. He'll be content in his place once he has babes to care for."

                The men nod in agreement and I clench my tankard, resisting the urge to bludgeon Cal with it. Is this really how the villagers think of us? I wrinkle my nose.

                "What of the beast?" someone asks.

                Cal's lips curl deviously. He pats his shotgun, propped proudly beside him. "We do with it like any beast. We hunt it. I'll have its head mounted on my wall—"

                "Alfred!"

                I jump in surprise. Antonio is waving happily from the doorway, trying to get my attention and, in doing so, giving away my position in the corner. Lovino is beside him.

                " _Fuck_ ," I curse, suddenly the centre-of-attention. Cal and I share a moment of eye-contact before he realizes that I've overheard his plan.

                I lunge for the door, but Cal grabs my shoulders and hauls me back. I try to fight, but half-a-dozen hands pin me down, pressing my cheek to the sticky tabletop.

                Then, suddenly, there's Antonio. He's a big, chocolate wall of ferocious power, a wolf the size of a mountain pony, his canines bared and his green eyes shining bright. He tears into the crowd, causing pandemonium as the men scramble for their guns. Antonio's teeth crunch the old man's fragile jugular before a shot fires and blood blossoms.

                " _Toni_!" Lovino shrieks, rushing forward.

                Antonio doesn't fall until several more shots pierce him. Then his knees hit the floor with a clack and blood spills from his mouth, a human-man once more. Without the fur, I count at least four bullet holes in his torso and one in his leg. He shouts to Lovino, but Lovino's gone mad with grief and rage and he doesn't slow. He throws himself into the fray, trying to reach his wounded wolf through the crowd of men who block his path. Antonio shakes his head and shouts again, and this time I hear it:

                " _Run_!" he barks, and the pain in his raspy voice has nothing to do with his injuries. He looks to Lovino, then helplessly to me.

                I nod, making him a promise.

                With a shout—a growl that sounds rather wolfish, I think—I throw off my captors and charge toward Lovino.              I don't stop; I barely slow. I grab the Italian around the waist and lift him clean off his feet. He's startled for a single heartbeat, then his shrieking intensifies, only now he's cursing at me as I hurry him out of the public-house, leaving Antonio behind.

                The last thing I hear before escaping into the surrounding woods is Antonio's howl.

* * *

**GILBERT**

Matthew and I are lounging together in front of the hearth. He's reading silently; I'm stretched out across the covered floor. The thick, woven mats and pelts feel good against my naked torso, but not as good as Matthew's fingers absently rubbing my head, scratching my scalp. It's blissful. I feel drunk and sleepy, lulled by the crackling fire's heat and the savory aroma of supper bubbling on the cooker. The wolf in me loves the wild, but the man is becoming accustomed to domesticity. I never thought I'd like being closed in, confined to a small interior space, but the dark is comforting, the pack's proximity is reassuring, their company is increasingly enjoyable, and the cottage walls make me feel secure; safe enough to fall asleep in my boy's lap.

                But I jerk upright the moment I hear Antonio's howl.

                It's baleful, yet screams of approaching danger.

                Francis drops a mug, which breaks on the floor. " _Toni_ ," he says, his sunny disposition gone. He rushes to the door, but I'm faster.

                "Let me through!" he growls, trying to shove past me. His expression is shocked and angry. "He needs me!"

                "What's going on?" Arthur asks, worried.

                Matthew's book is abandoned on the floor. He's standing now, his eyes big and anxious.

                "Gilbert, _move_!" Francis orders, grabbing my forearms, pushing, then pulling at me, but I stand my ground. "He's hurt, he needs me!" he repeats, nearly hysteric.

                I look past Francis to Arthur, whose green eyes demand an explanation; then to Matthew, who looks scared. "That wasn't a call for help," I say, taking Francis' shoulders, shaking him a little, "it was a warning."

                "He's my best friend—" Francis argues.

                "And he's warning you to _run_ ," I say, letting dominance into my voice and glare and posture; squeezing the tawny wolf's shoulders with overbearing strength.

                Francis shakes his head, fighting with himself. His blue eyes are soft and pleading and they capture Arthur in confused, helpless desperation.

                I, too, look to the pack alpha.

                I like Antonio. He's helped me win my Matthew's affection, and he's been less formal and judgemental than Francis. He's been a friend since the beginning. He's a part of my— _our_ —pack, and I would help him if I could, but the cry in Antonio's howl redirects my priority. Antonio is a hunter, a survivor, and a protector, which is why I trust him. His howl is a scout's warning to the pack, a self-sacrifice telling them to flee.

                So, when Francis begs: "Please, Arthur, Toni needs me— _please_ , let me go to him!" I take his face in my hands and force him to look at me instead. I wait for him to really _look_ at me, and I say very seriously:

                "So does your _family_."

                I choose the human-word on purpose, hoping it appeals to his sentimentality. I hold my breath, but it works. After a tense moment, Francis visibly deflates and pulls away from me, nodding. He looks pained and ashamed as he retreats to Arthur's side, as if remembering where he belongs. It's a little sad, but seeing him standing at his mate's side, between he and Matthew, tells me that he's chosen his priority now, too. I relax my guard, but don't move away from the door, the direction of the brewing threat.

                "Alpha?" I prompt, squaring my posture.

                Arthur's mouth is silent for a minute, but his expression is loud in thought. I can practically see the wheels in his head churning a plot. When he speaks, his words are deeply regretful, but his tone leaves no room for argument. His decision, all things considered, comes fast.

                "Matthew," he orders, "pack travel supplies for you and your brother, warm clothes, medicine—and food for us all, no perishables. Francis, secure the property and lock-down my stores. Then burn it all. Gilbert, find Alfred and fetch Lovino here at any cost. Carry him if you have to. _Hurry_ ," he says, releasing us to our individual tasks. "We have to get as far away from here as we can before they come. We leave in five minutes."

                We scatter. Matthew and I share a loaded, lingering look before he hurries into his bedroom and I take off to gather the pack. But I don't have to go far.

                I nearly collide with Alfred, tearing through the forest, dragging Lovino behind him. Antonio's mate's face is red and his eyes are wet; he's shaking and stumbling; he's in shock, I've seen it before. Alfred's eyes are wide. He has a death-grip on Lovino, as if the Italian might run back to the village if he lets go.

                "Gilbert!" Alfred gasps. "Arthur—Mattie—we've got to go! They're coming! A—mob!"

                "I know," I say, circling around them, sniffing the air. I can smell salt, but that's Lovino's tears. I can hear an agonized whimper, but that, too, is Lovino. A din is rising beyond the trees, though; villagers amassing with weapons and torches; women yelling, children crying. I can smell smoke and gunpowder. I can hear fire and metal. The thing I can no longer hear is Antonio, which worries me, but I swallow it for the sake of his distressed little mate.

                At the edge of the forest, Lovino falls to his knees in the snow. "Get up! Lovino, get up!" Alfred urges, shaking the man's whole arm, but the limb is limp, and his head is bowed, and trembling sobs wrack his hunched figure. He's crying, in a stupor repeating his wolf's name: " _Toni... Tonio_ , _he's hurt... they've got him_ , _he... he's..._ " Alfred jerks him, but Lovino only falls onto his elbows, like a pack-member's bow of submission, except that the action is subconscious. " _Tonio_ , _he's not... I can't..._ "

                We don't have time for this.

                "Lovino," I say, kneeling in front of him. I lift his head, like I did Francis', making him look at me. Humans respond well to physical contact, despite all of the rules they impose. I've never noticed before, but Lovino's eyes are flecked with caramel, ringed with gold. They're thickly lashed, very dark, very pretty. Or, they would be, if they weren't red and running, like his pert nose. His cheeks are warm and soft in my hands.

                "I know you're worried about Antonio, but—" I add quickly, when Lovino squeaks in distress, his lip curling under, "—he's strong, he's smart, he's not going to let the humans defeat him."

                "I-I-I—I can f-f-feel him, he's hurt," Lovino cries. "I-I-I—I can f-f-feel him slipping... He's going to d-d-die! You have to save him, _please_!" he begs, suddenly grabbing my forearms, digging in his fingernails. His pretty eyes get even bigger. "I-I-I—I'll do anything, just— _Please help him_!"

                I glance at Alfred, who looks sympathetic but impatient. I feel bad for Lovino, too, but I won't insult Antonio by ignoring his warning and endangering his mate.

                "I'm sorry, Lovino," I say honestly, and, without warning, scoop him into my arms.

                I prepare myself for a fight—I've seen his fiery temper—but all he does is slump against me as we hurry to the cottage, wetting my neck with his tears.

* * *

**MATTHEW**

I empty Al's clothes into a satchel, then stuff in mine. I grab things that I think we may need for a journey through the wilderness—lamenting the loss of my books—but, in truth, I have no idea what might be useful on such a trek. I'm not a hunter or explorer; I don't travel; I've never left the domain in my life. The farthest I've been is to the neighbouring villages, and, even then, so rarely that it's hardly worth mentioning. I know it'll be cold, and I know it'll be a long trek through the mountains, because the highway will be too dangerous for us, at least until we've left the domain. The city beyond the mountains is our destination, but I've never known anyone daft enough to attempt the journey in winter. If we die, it'll be my fault.

                My fault. Oh gods, it's all my fault.

                My fingers tremble as I untie the dream-catcher—the one Al and I gifted to Francis—from the wall and put it carefully into the satchel. I can't leave it behind. It's not valuable, but it _is_ important. It's the most important thing we own, and I won't watch it burn with the cottage.

                I try to tie the satchel closed, but I fumble the leather laces. My heart is pounding. I'm biting my lip, willing myself not to cry.

                It's all my fault. It's all my fault.

                My family is in terrible danger, my friends are hurt. The villagers are rallying. Antonio is captured, injured, maybe dying. We're being forced to flee our home, flee for our lives. And it's all my fault.

                I know it's presumptuous to credit myself with these events, however indirectly, but I _know_ this wouldn't be happening if not for me: if Cal wasn't focused—obsessively—on me. I should've denied him from the start. I should've been forceful, forthcoming, and rejected him. Oh, why didn't I reject him? I did. I did at the Midwinter Festival, but it was much too late. I've challenged him without knowing it. I've given him a hunt with my family the prey and myself the prize. I shouldn't have ever submitted to him, not even in conversation, but I did, over and over again without understanding the consequences, and now I've endangered us all. Because it's he who will figurehead this hunt; it's his _cause_ that the villagers will pretend to champion. He's given them a reason to finally attack us, to abduct Al and I and trial Arthur for witchcraft. They'll imprison Francis without a second-thought.

                And Gilbert—

                Gods, Gilbert. Cal will kill him.

                I press a hand to my mouth to stifle a sob.

                "Matthew?" says Arthur.

                He enters the bedroom with purpose and lays a firm hand on my back, rubbing hard. It's not considerate, but stimulating. It jostles me a little.

                "Deep breath, we don't have time for this," he says sternly. "I need you to be brave. I need you not to break."

                " _It's all my fault_ ," I whisper, shaky. I turn to face him. "Art, I—I'm so sorry. I've caused so much trouble. And now our home—"

                " _Matthew_ ," snaps Arthur, covering my mouth. " _Not now_. I love you, poppet, I really do, but save the self-pity for later," he says bluntly. "I don't need my soft, sweet, sheltered boy right now. What I need is for you to stop crying, pull yourself together, and help me protect our pack. I know you're scared. I know it's not fair. I've never asked this of you before, but I _need your help_ , because if you break now, then everyone else will too. _You_ are the thing that holds us all together. _You_ are what keeps our pack from falling apart."

                Wait, what? _Me—_?

                I stare at Arthur, stunned.

                "I—I'm not," I argue weakly. "This is all happening because of _me_."

                "I know," Arthur says in surprising agreement. "But that doesn't make it your fault. It doesn't make you any less deserving of the pack's love."

                _Lovino probably disagrees_ , I think, but don't say it aloud.

                "We need you, Matthew," Arthur continues, lecturing, but firm. " _You_ are the reason I left the fey. _You_ were the first one to love Francis unconditionally when he came to us. _You_ are the only one that can temper your brother. You don't realize what a comfort you are to us all, how we cherish you. There are days we would tear each other apart without you here. And Gilbert—? He wouldn't even be here if not for _you_.

                "Everyone _listens_ to you," he says, shocking me. "We can _function_ because of _you_. I may be the alpha of the pack; Alfred may be the hunter; but _you_ are the glue that keeps us all together. And right now, we need that. We need to stay together or we won't survive. That's why _you can't break_."

                I'm staring at him still. I swallow nervously, then nod.

                "Good," he says, releasing me. He gestures to the satchel on my bed: talk over, back to work. But at the door he pauses and throws a worried look back at me. It's softer than his voice, which is strict.

                "Matthew," he advises—warns, "don't think about him."

                _Gilbert_.

                What might happen to him—? Oh, gods. If we're caught, they'll kill him.

                "Don't think, just _do_."

                I take a deep breath and nod again, more assuredly. "Yes, okay—"

                The cottage's front door slams open. " _Arthur_!" Francis shouts in a panic. " _They're coming_ , _we need to go_!"

                I grab the satchel and follow my cousin. Francis is loading Gilbert with Arthur's supplies, like a pack-mule. (Gilbert, I notice, takes the weight without complaint.) Al is red-cheeked and clutching his shotgun, his eyes darting frantically, like he doesn't know where to look; as if he doesn't know which direction the threat is coming from. And Lovino. Oh, Lovino. The man who, only a few days ago, was worried for my well-being; the man whose been a friend to my family, despite our curiosities; the man I've always thought of as bold and sure of himself and his place in the world has fallen into a chair at the table and is holding his head in his hands.

                In that moment, I understand. I know exactly what it is that Arthur wants— _needs_ —from me.

                I take a wool blanket from the rocking-chair and go to Lovino. I drape it on him, wrap it around him over his coat. I urge him up, adding my touch to the weight on his shoulders, his back, and pull him to me without formality. "It's okay, it's going to be okay," I say softly. His knees buckle, and all I can think is: _What is he feeling_? _What are they doing to Antonio_? It's enough to bring tears to my eyes, but I quickly blink them away.

                _Come on_ , I tell myself, _grow a bloody spine_!

                I'm not a hunter, or a fighter, or a fey-witch. I'm the _omega_ of the pack, but that doesn't make me useless.

"Come on, Lovino," I tell him, pulling his arm over my shoulders and holding him close to me as we leave the cottage, probably for the last time. I don't let him falter or slow. I don't let him look back at the village.

                " _It's cold_ ," he whispers, shivering; numbing. " _He's so cold_."

                "Lovino," I squeeze him, "don't think—just _do_. Just _walk_."

                Lovino walks; one step, then two. He leans heavily on me and follows me like a duckling, with directionless trust in each step. I don't let him go and I don't let him stop. We fall into step behind Al, who leads our escape into the  forest and the unforgiving mountains beyond.

                But I don't take my own advice.

                At the forest's mouth, I cast a glance over-my-shoulder, wanting to see the cottage, our home, one last time before flames consume it, but I don't see it. I see Gilbert, instead. He's at the rear of our frantic queue, guarding our backs. I see his snow-white, blood-red palette glowing in the firelight and falling, fractured starlight, casting him ever brighter in white and red, his expression set in determination. I actively try to mimic his posture—his confidence, his bravery. I try to look just as self-assured as he does, unafraid of the wild unknown. I wonder what it is he sees in me, what drew him to me in the first place, and I try to embody it without a clear idea of what it is. Then I remember:

                _Songbird_ , that's what he calls me.

                A songbird is a small thing with a powerful voice. Not loud, but impactful. They're not always seen or heeded or even noticed, but their songs are always in the distance, constant, a sign of joy and peace.

                I hold Lovino close to me—sad, scared, lonely Lovino—and I sing. It's soft and quiet, barely audible, but I do it anyway. My voice is a little shaky as we walk, and my breath puffs in the cold, but I don't stop. I whisper the song to myself, for myself more than anything else, until I hear an echo of it ahead of me, and I realize that Francis is singing now, too. Then Al begins to chant it, and then Arthur. Finally, Lovino's strained voice joins in weakly. It's not a march or a party song. It's not boisterous, not intended to balloon our spirits, not loud and communal, but quietly personal. It's meant to distract us, and it does.

                I feel a wash of calm come over me as I look forward, then back. And I see Gilbert again, still behind us, still guarding us. But this time he sees me, too, and he smiles.

                His smile is small and a little crooked, not soft but not sharp. It's not a game or a challenge. It's not arrogant. It's—proud. Of _me_.

                It's love for me.

                And I—

                I make a decision. In that single moment, I make a decision that ignores Arthur's advice, but not his plea.

                My pack needs me to protect them, and I will.


	13. Twelve

**MATTHEW**

Echo Mountain beckons.

                It’s a cold, empty place full of ghosts and I don’t relish returning to it, but it’s a safe distance from the village, and a refuge from the biting wind and weather. Gilbert plays sentry while Al scavenges firewood, and Arthur blows on it, breathing a flame to life. It catches the bracken without fuel and Arthur coaxes it into a blaze.

                There have been many times in my life when I envied by cousin’s gifts, like the last time I sat in this cavern, freezing to death, but today I do not. Today, the display worries me. Arthur looks drawn in the bright, sharp light, so pale that his freckles look like a dusting of cinnamon on flour. “I’m fine,” he insists, “just a little lightheaded.” He says this even as his knees tremble and he sits down to disguise a collapse. He yields the supper-making to me and doesn’t even have energy left to critique the process. I’m not the most talented cook in the pack—fourth, at best—but I have endurance that the others do not. Arthur slumps, only half-conscious, against Francis, who holds him tenderly, afraid to let go. Al, too, is tired, but engaged elsewhere. He knows this mountain better than all of us; knows where to find water and materials to shelter us. Gilbert guards us, always. And Lovino—

                Lovino is crying.

                There is no pretense in him, now; no customary illusion of strength. He sits with his back to the rock, curled in on himself, his face downcast and turned away. He’s clutching his knees to his chest, his shoulders arched. He looks tense, as if he can’t move; as if grief has shackled him. He looks small and frail and alone despite the pack’s proximity. I thought I knew what _despair_ looked like; thought I had seen it before in Arthur; thought I knew what that sad word meant, but I was wrong.

                I know what it looks like now, and I wish I didn’t. I pray I never know what it feels like.

                I want to comfort Lovino, but I dare not approach him. His grief is too alike mine, if greater. I’m afraid that the closer I get the more acutely I’ll feel it, and the heavier my heart will become. I can already feel sorrow pushing to the surface from deep within me, threatening to spill out in cries and gasps and tears, in angry words and self-hatred.

                _Later_ , I tell myself. I will let myself feel it later, but not now. I can’t let it overwhelm me yet; can’t let it show.

                Right now, I need to make supper.

* * *

**GILBERT**

Alfred drops another armload of branches on the fire. Arthur wanted to burn hazel and hawthorn, but I assured him that I am guard enough for the pack. He ignored my boast, insisting on the protective properties of the witch-woods. Fortunately, Alfred did not discriminate when scavenging, and returns with oak and ash and dogwood. I’m relieved. What if the witch-woods had repelled Francis and I? Then who would guard against the dark?

                I take the first watch, winning the honour of it from Francis, who doesn’t argue. Antonio would have argued, or at least regretted the loss, as any proud wolf—or man—would, but Francis looks at me with gratitude as he retreats into the cave, as if I have not won an honour but accepted a sacrifice. Being away from his mate, in any capacity, is a sacrifice for one so attached, and Francis is proof of that. I consider this—I look at Matthew—before I step outside. The wolf I was three moon-cycles ago would have jeered at Francis’ lack of dignity, but it tastes like ash on my tongue now and I swallow it down, because it is not the time for teasing. I can see that in him, and in Lovino and Arthur, who are both slowly dying in their own ways. Fleeing the village might mean nothing to me, for I prefer the wilderness and will always feel at home in the mountains, but the others do not share my opinion. I find myself wishing Antonio was here, because four of our pack are fragile humans, and the other has lived as a human-man for so long that the wolf has become his dormant, second-skin, not his first. The wolf is not what Francis identifies with anymore; his family is.

                I think again of Matthew and know that he is upset, and so I must pretend to be upset, too, even though this escape is everything I’ve wanted since meeting him beneath the blood-moon.

                _Maybe not everything_ , I repent, because I regret the loss of Antonio. He's my friend, the first friend I think I’ve ever had. I would’ve liked to have him here.

                But my regret is inconsequential compared to Lovino’s grief. My heart bleeds for him and his lost happiness. I can’t fathom what it must feel like to lose a life-mate, and I don’t want to. Selfishly, I’m glad that it’s him suffering and not me, because I know I couldn’t endure it. Secretly, I admire the small human’s inner-strength, because losing my life-mate would kill me. Or, I would kill myself.

                Antonio is not dead yet. If he was, then Lovino would know. Maybe that’s the hope he clings to. But to know his mate is alive and suffering in imprisonment? That’s worse, because he’s still lost to us. What must _that_ feel like, knowing that he can never see, or touch, or speak to Antonio ever again? The knowledge that we're fleeing and leaving Antonio behind must be the worst instrument of torture. I couldn’t bear it, if it was me. And yet, somehow, Lovino is.

                Perhaps humans are stronger than I give them credit for.

                Matthew appears and offers me a bowl of something spicy. It’s hot and thick and the fragrant herbs delight my nose, but there’s something else. A whiff of something sweet, not savory— _sniff sniff_ —a weak scent stirred into the broth. Could it be the scent of faerie magic, I wonder? But no, Matthew can’t brew potions. Matthew is my good, pure human-boy, not a witch.

                I watch all the others eat, a silent meal shared in grim company. It was Francis who taught Matthew how to cook, and Francis who corrects the pup when he’s done wrong, so it's him I watch for signs of mistrust. But he either doesn’t notice the sweet scent, or doesn’t care. He swallows it down without comment, his attention fixated elsewhere.

                Francis had scolded Arthur for lighting the fire, insisting that Alfred could have done it without the need of magic, but Arthur ignored him. He’s quick to defend the benefits of his tricks, and quicker to dismiss the evidence of his own failing health. Addicts are like that.

                When Matthew asks if I like the stew, I lie and tell him I do.

* * *

**MATTHEW**

I wait until everyone has been lulled to sleep.

                Convincing Lovino to eat was difficult, and goading him felt abusive, but he eventually complied, likely just to cease my pestering. I watched him anxiously in my peripheral vision, wondering what I would have to do if he only pretended to eat, or didn’t eat enough, but it was a needless worry. He was exhausted; his body didn’t need much assistance before it was heavy with sleep. Now, he lies curled in a defensive ball, his back braced against Arthur’s with Al lying on his right. Arthur hadn’t wanted to eat either, but Francis’ insistence was more forcefully convincing than mine could ever be. Fortunately, he and Al ate without a second-thought. They all lay together now, my pack. Francis' large tawny body is draped over them, blanketing them, protecting them. I want to reach out and pet him. I want to stroke his fur, which is so much softer than Gilbert’s. A part of me resents Francis for keeping the secret of his wolf-self for so long, because I would have loved nothing better than to snuggle with him as a child.

                I had always wanted a dog. Perhaps Cal will let me have one?

                I shake the thought from my head, my gaze still fixed on my pack. I resent the circumstances that force me to leave them. I want to stay. I want more time with them. Three moon-cycles is not long enough to live with the truth.

_I don’t want to go._

_I don’t want to go_.

                Quietly, I leave the cave, clutching my red cape close around me. It’s the only thing I take. Arthur made if for me when I was too small to wear it, and I take comfort in its familiar folds. It still smells like our cottage, like home.

                Gilbert is sitting against the cave entrance, his head bowed to his chest in sleep. He’ll be upset with himself when he wakes, thinking he failed in guarding the pack. I’m sorry for that. He’s such a proud wolf, an honest man. He would never resort to lies and tricks, like I am. I hate leaving him like this, without a goodbye, without a thank-you for everything he’s given me, but saying goodbye to him would be unbearable.

                It would make me not want to go.

                I want to embrace him and kiss him and stay with him, his arms around me, his voice in my ear, but a selfish part of myself is glad I don’t have to say goodbye. Maybe he’ll resent me for leaving. Maybe that’s for the best.

                I move past him swiftly, wiping the tears off my cheeks. I climb down from the mountain, but I don’t get far.

                Gilbert lands in front of me, a blockade of solid, sinewy muscle.

                "Don't go," he says.

                I press my lips together, swallowing a sob. It's a long, tense moment before I trust myself to say: "You didn't eat the stew."

                It's a fact, not a scold. Gilbert shakes his head.

                "You poisoned it."

                "A sleeping-draught," I correct, "nothing more."

                His stare is accusatory, but not harsh. "A weak poison then," he says in disappointment.

                I nod, churning with guilt, and lower my eyes, because I don't feel brave enough to face the accusation. "They wouldn't have let me leave otherwise."

                " _I_ will not let you leave," he says vehemently, taking a step toward me.

                His footfall is heavy, his eyes bright, and I remember the feeling of fear, of cowering beneath him in the light of the blood-mood, but it's a memory only.

                Gilbert will not hurt me.

                I raise my head.

                "And how," I say, taking a deliberate step forward, "are you going to stop me?"

                His brow creases in confusion, then disbelief. I have never challenged him before, never argued or mocked his role as the alpha. I have never raised my voice.

                "How?" I repeat in a strict voice, unlike myself. I lift my chin higher and straighten my spine. I'm trembling—with rage and grief and fear—but I hope he can't tell. I meet his eyes with a determined stare of my own. I will not let him persuade me, no matter what he says—

                —but Gilbert, proud and vicious ex-alpha wolf, says nothing.

                My voice fills the silence again, pushing him.

                "Are you going to hit me?" I ask.

                He stares at me, speechless.

                "Are you going to grab me? Bully me? Throw me over your shoulder and carry me off?"

                I advance on him confrontationally, and by the time I'm finished speaking we're only standing inches apart. I glare up into his face, hoping he can't see the fear in my eyes. Fear _for_ him, not _of_ him; not anymore.

                " _Are you_?" I snap, hating my voice.

                "No," he says quietly.

                "Well," I take a deep breath, wondering why— _why_?—he isn't fight me, "then you can't stop me."

                "I can ask you," he says, quieter still. "I can plead with you not to go. I can beg," he says without shame.

                I stand there, shocked into silence, because I don't know this wolf who falls to his knees in the snow. I don't recognize this helpless bow of submission.

                " _Gilbert_ ," I exhale.

                "Please, my songbird. Don't go."

                I wanted to escape with strength, but the white wolf's plea weakens me like nothing ever has, not sickness or sadness, or force. I'm scared now for myself, because I don't know if I can do this. I don't know if I can walk away from him.

                "I have to." My lips form the words, but they're empty. The hurt in my heart deafens me from within. "It's the only way you'll be safe."

                "I'm not afraid."

                "But I _am_ ," I return, feeling the well of tears. "I'm afraid for you and our pack. It's my fault we've had to flee. My fault Antonio is captured, maybe—maybe dead," I stutter. "If he's alive, then I might be able to save him. I might be able to bargain for his life... with myself."

                "Matthew—"

                "It's worth it!" I say, before he can argue. "If I can save him, and you, and prevent further danger to our pack, it's worth it! I can't watch them hunt you, Gilbert! I can't close my eyes and see your head on a wall, your pelt on the floor, I just... _can't_!"

                I'm shaking badly. There's no hiding it now, if there ever was.

                "If they find us, you'll be killed," I say, softer. "Francis, too. They'll burn Arthur. And if Al tries to stop them, which he will, they'll hang him."

                Tears, now, rolling down my cheeks. This is not the dignified escape I wanted. It's what I feared.

                "I can prevent it, all of it. All for the price of myself. How selfish would I be not to pay it?"

                "No."

                Gilbert stands, and a little of the alpha creeps back into his voice. He takes my hands in his. "You're my mate, Matthew— _mine_ , not his."

                "I'm sorry."

                He holds me tighter, desperate. But it's not a hold he won't let me break.

                I pull back and his hands fall away, hanging limply at his sides.

                "For what it's worth," I add, knowing I shouldn't, "I think... I would've really liked to be your mate."

                A mournful howl rolls up his throat, and he closes his eyes for a moment until it's done, like it hurts him; like _I've_ hurt him. Then, his jaw tight, his eyes soft and sad in torment, he holds out his hand to me, desperately hopeful.

                I want to take it so badly it hurts.

                " _Please_ ," he begs.

                My heart breaks.

                " _I'm sorry_ ," I say.

                I walk past him without looking back.

* * *

I don't recall much of the walk back to the village, even as I'm walking it. Every step that takes me away from Gilbert feels unreal, like it's happening to someone else.

                I don't have a light. I might already be lost, wandering deeper and deeper into the unknown. But is it really _lost_ if you don't care where you are? It's not until I see the civility of lantern light break the hazy grey of dawn that I stop and let them come to me.

                " _Matthew_!" calls a villager, recognizing me. He hurries trippingly forward, the light swinging, afraid I might spook and run like the deer. He hollers into the distance, summoning the rest of the search party, who swarm toward the call. He grabs my arm without pretense, like leashing a runaway dog. But I don't run. Not as they walk me back to the village; not as they parade me into the public-house; not as they bombard me with questions, without letting go of my arm.

                "What happened? Where are the others?"

                "How did you escape?"

                "Talk to us, Matthew, darling. Was it the beast what got them?"

                "Where's Al? Is he okay?"

                "Has Arthur finally gone mad?"

                "The beast, boy! The white beast—is it still alive?"

                The voices fall upon me like their hands do, grabbing at me, but I don't say a word. Not until Cal arrives.

                He emerges from the milling mob like a bear, his dark head above everyone else. He shoves his way forward with his arms outstretched toward me, his face an interesting study of anger and relief.

                " _Don't_ ," I say firmly, my voice cutting through the trilling conversation.

                Cal pauses, then he comes to a rolling stop in front of me and drops his arms. The public-house falls into a hush, the audience watching with baited breath as if Cal and I are players performing a drama.

                "What happened to you?" Cal asks in restrained tones. He looks me up-and-down, from head-to-toe, taking in my red cape and—despite it all—lingering on my hips. When his dark eyes land on the mark on my neck, he glares. "Where is the beast?" he asks tensely.

                "Gone," I report. Then: "May I speak with you in private, please?"

                A part of me is still afraid to be near Cal, and the hand he presses to my back confirms this, but a bigger part of me is numb.

                He leads me into his shop and closes the door behind us. His hand doesn't leave my person, the weight of it a sign of his intent. He wants to cow me, _wants_ me afraid of him.

                I brush him off and step into the butchery, which looks sharp and smells of salt and blood.

                "You came back to me," Cal says, getting in the first word. His statement is self-satisfied, a little mocking, but not without surprise. "You broke the beast's bewitchment—"

                "There was no bewitchment," I interrupt, annoyed. "Do you really think me so weak-willed?"

                He stares at me, frowning, which is answer enough.

                "Mattie—"

                " _Don't call me that_!" I snap, getting angry. "How many times must I ask you not to call me that?"

                His face creases irritably, and rhetorically he asks: "What is wrong with you? You're in shock, Matt," he says a second later, deciding for himself. "The fire and the forest and your family's betrayal, it's all given you a bad shock. You've got too delicate a constitution for everything you've suffered," he says, his voice softening into condescension. "I understand, sweetheart, and I forgive you for it. Now, here," he draws forth a chair, "sit down before you fall into hysterics."

                I swallow my anger, because I am not a violent person. I don't want to be.

                Evenly, I say: "I've thought about your proposal."

                There's no reason to delay the inevitable. Arguing with small-minded people like Cal is always a frustrating waste of time, and no eloquent or thoughtful language would change the purpose of my speech, so I say it plainly:

                "I accept. I'll marry you, if—" I add quickly, "you call off the search and let my pack go free, unharmed and unhunted."

                "You'll marry me?" he repeats in surprise, ignoring my conditions. "You'll be with me, stay with me forever?"

                "Yes." I dodge his reach. "But only if you let my pack go."

                "Your— _what_?" He grimaces. "Mattie... ahem, Matt," he clears his throat, finally taking me seriously, "this is most irregular. I mean, you must know, don't you, that by returning to the village you've removed yourself from the fate of your _family_. You understand that, whether you marry me now or not, I can't possibly let you leave here. You're a harm to yourself in this state. I can't, in good conscience, let you go back to them. Now, sit down, sweetheart, and—

                " _What are you doing_? _Are you mad_?"

                He lunges at me, but stops when I knick my neck with the knife. I had taken it from Al as he slept and hidden it in my sleeve. No one had thought to search me for weapons: not meek Matthew Kirkland. But I've _finally_ got Cal's attention.

                I clutch the knife steadily and press the blade into my skin just above Gilbert's mark.

                "Don't think I won't do it," I warn Cal. "If you try to keep me here, I'll open my throat and bleed-out. If you continue to hunt my family, then I have no reason not to die."

                Maybe this is a manipulation. Maybe it's selfish and reckless and irresponsible, but at least it's _my_ choice. And that feels good.

                Cal sees the defiance in me and goes quiet in anger. "So, it was a lie then, was it? That you would marry me? You'd rather cut your own throat?"

                "No, it wasn't a lie. I'm merely speaking your language, Cal. Consider this—" I drag the knife, smearing the beads of blood—"a contract between us. Call off the hunt, and I will never run from you, never harm myself, never disobey you or shame you. I will be your ideal spouse, whatever it is you want me to be. Let my pack go free and you'll have what you've always wanted. You'll have won."

                "You swear it?"

                "Yes. Stop hunting Gilbert—the wolf," I clarify, "and let Antonio go, and I'll be yours forever."

                He stares at me, thoughtful. "Lower the knife," he says, not trusting me.

                I do. And the moment I do, a smug, victorious grin spreads over his face.

                "Okay," he agrees. He holds out his hand for the knife, which I hesitantly relinquish. "Marry me, be with me, stay with me forever, Matthew, my dear," he says, cupping my face, "and your family will be free to go."

* * *

Antonio is chained to a pillar in the dark cold-cellar under the public-house. The ceiling is so low that I have to duck as I move toward him, a wavering candlestick in hand.

                "Let Antonio go," I had said to Cal. He had merely grimaced and tossed me a ring of keys, refusing to go near the chocolate wolf. The villagers, too, tried to stop me as I headed for the cold-cellar. They grabbed at me, begging me not to release _the beast_!, insisting that Antonio is dangerous, that he would attack me, kill me, but I shrugged them all off in frustration. I think they would've restrained me if not for Cal, who ordered them to let me go; though he, too, quickly vacated the public-house in fear of encountering the wolf. Their fear gave me hope that Antonio was still alive and well, for people do not—often—fear dead threats. But my hope deflates when I see him.

                Antonio's naked body is slumped in the dirt with his arms twisted painfully behind him, clamped in irons. Sinister shadows play over the muscular planes of his tanned body, but the candlelight exposes the horrible, inflamed wounds in his torso. I press my lips together as I crouch down, counting the punctures still oozing gelatinous blood. His breaths are shallow, and his head is hanging limp, lethargic, but he lifts it an inch when I near, his nose twitching.

                " _Matt_..." he rasps without opening his eyes. His voice is strained and thirsty and I wish I had water to offer.

                "Yes," I confirm, gently touching his face. "I'm here. It's going to be okay, Antonio. I'm going to free you."

                I say this, even as I crawl around the pillar. He tenses a little, weary, in his half-conscious state, of someone being at his back. I take care not to bump him, or jostle his arms too much as I fumble with the locks. They come loose with a click, freeing the wolf's wrists, but leaving ugly red blisters behind.

                "There," I say, forcing confidence.

                I don't know what I expected: for Antonio to leap to his feet in a show of desperate, adrenaline-fueled vitality and strength, I suppose. Instead, his arms fall limply to his sides and he slumps further into the dirt. For a moment, I think he's lost consciousness, but then I hear a question through his laboured breaths:

                " _Lovi_?"

                 "He's safe," I say, slipping my arms around him. I try to pull him up, but he merely falls forward, forcing me onto my rump with his dead-weight. I can feel his nose twitching against my skin, telling him that I'm not Lovino, and he asks again:

                " _Lovi_?"

                I sigh, my heart going out to him. "Yes," I tell him, petting his head. "Lovi is alive. But you must go to him.

                "Antonio—?"

                It's a minute before Antonio rouses again. This time, he opens his eyes and stares at me with something akin to lucidity.

                "Matt?" he says in surprised confusion. "Why are you here?"

                "The pack is on Echo Mountain, where Gilbert took me," I say, ignoring his query as I urge him to his knees. He grunts, but complies. "If you hurry, you might catch them before they leave."

                "But you—you're coming with me?"

                "I need to stay here," I say, as matter-of-factly as possible. "Tell the pack—"

                " _No_."

                I'm taken aback by his glaring green eyes, narrowed in hurt. "I'm not leaving you here," he says indignantly, as if I've insulted him. "Just what do you think I am? You're my pack-brother, Matt."

                I purse my lips. We really don't have time for his chivalry right now.

                "Not anymore," I say firmly, pulling him to his feet. He staggers a little, then catches his balance. I can see his stomach clench in pain, but the hurt on his face is a tapestry of feelings I can't pick apart. "Go, Antonio," I tell him, pushing him gently up the stairs. "The pack needs you more than it needs me. _Lovino_ needs you."

                He growls a little. "You're making a mistake—"

                "No, I'm making a decision for the first time in my whole life," I correct, "and I know it's the right one. This is the only way I can protect the pack, and that includes you and Lovino, so _go_."

                He steps into the public-house, then stops, plants his feet, and faces me.

                "What are you going to do?" he asks.

                "Something I should've done a long time ago," I say regretfully. "Get married."

                Al would yell at me. Arthur would scold me. Francis would pull me into an embrace and not let me go. But Antonio merely stares at me, hard. His green eyes—ever youthful and smiling—are like stone, now. Not wild and fiery, but heavy. He doesn't scold or coddle me; he speaks to me like an equal, like a friend.

                "You're marrying the wrong person."

                His words cut me, because I know they're true.

                "I know," I admit.

                Then he's hugging me, and my facade has broken—again—and I'm crying, again. I don't want him to leave me alone. I don't want to let go of him. I want to go with him.

                "Tell the pack that I love them, and that I'm sorry," I say instead.

                He pulls away, walks to the backdoor. Once more, he says: "Come with me— _please_ ," but I shake my head.

                "Lovino's waiting for you, Antonio. Just go."

                He sighs, defeated. But we both know that Lovino is worth more to him than I am, and neither of us pretends any different.

                With a great effort that rips a pained growl from him, he shifts into a big, beautiful chocolate wolf, and runs into the forest.

* * *

**GILBERT**

I stare at the horizon, watching the black bleed into grey and then pink. It's a violent, red morning, but I don't move.

                I don't move when the others wake at daybreak, groggy and confused.

                "Where's Matthew?" Arthur rasps. He staggers up the steep, rocky slope and onto the ledge I'm standing on. The effort makes him cough. "Gilbert?" he asks, betraying fear. "Where is Matthew?"

                "Gone."

                "What?"

                I unhinge my jaw, but my voice still doesn't sound like mine. "Gone back to the village," I say.

                " _What_?"

                That voice belongs to Francis. It's a frantic whine, a wolf playing human. " _Where is Mathieu_?" he repeats his mate with authority.

                I really don't want to have this conversation right now, not ever.

                "Gone," I say again. "I let him go."

                "But— _why_?" Francis presses. "Why didn't you stop him?"       

                _Go away. Go away. Go away._

                _Why_?

 _Why_ _did I do it_? _Why did I let him go_?

                "Because," I say, voicing the feeling that's tormented me all night, "I love him."

                Arthur shrieks at me in outrage. He grabs at my shirt, trying to turn me around to face him, his fists leeched of their strength, but Francis pulls him off. I expect the tawny wolf to take up his mate's mantle and attack me, maybe kill me—I don't care—but he doesn't. He doesn't say anything. He just looks at me for a minute, and then takes Arthur away.

                I don't turn to watch them go.

                I don't move at all until Alfred punches me in the face. Then I stumble a bit, but I don't retaliate, and when I don't, he gets angrier and leaves me alone. He stalks down the mountainside to the forest, cursing and kicking things, pacing in circles like an agitated pup.

                "I'm going back!" he announces aggressively, and then tries to fight off Francis, who blocks him, worried for the pup's safety. " _Mattie's_ not safe!" Alfred argues. "Do you have any idea what Cal will do to him?"

                " _Of course I do_!" Arthur snarls. Then he doubles over and vomits in the snow.

                Francis worries. Arthur argues. Alfred yells. They attack each other because they can't attack their enemies, because they have no one to bring them peace.

                Lovino stays still and silent through it all.

                So do I.

                I stare at the horizon and don't move.

                I don't move when I catch Antonio's bloody, sweaty scent on the wind, or when Francis' howl erupts in relief, heralding his return.

                I don't move when Antonio emerges from the dense forest as a panting, bleeding wolf, who collapses onto his haunches before shifting back into a gasping, bleeding man, and Lovino comes slowly back to life. He stares for a long, bewildered moment, as if he doesn't trust the sight, then explodes into action. He cries-out in strangled disbelief and runs to the wolf, and then they are no longer two beings, but one. Lovino's arms are around Antonio, and Antonio is wrapped around Lovino, and their bodies are crushed together, which must hurt the wolf, but he doesn't seem to care, because he's kissing his mate, and his mate is crying and kissing him back. I can hear Antonio whispering: " _I love you. I love you. I love you._ " It's a testament of my breeding that I can decipher anything beneath Lovino's sobs from such a distance, but I take no pride in it, because I wish I couldn't hear them at all.

                _Don't come up here_ , I think to Antonio.

                The others welcomes him back; a small consolation for the loss of Matthew, but a consolation nonetheless. They're glad he's safe, if not unharmed. Francis' display is confusing for its expressiveness; I can't tell if he's feeling more for the loss of his pup, or the return of his dearest friend. Arthur offers to heal Antonio while trying to suppress a coughing-fit, but the wolf refuses, and Alfred fetches mundane medicine and cloth bandages instead. But Antonio dismisses this, too. Nobly, he says: "There's something I have to do first."

                _Don't come up here_ , I think harder, clenching my fists.

                I can't look at him. I don't want to look into his green eyes and see pity.  But Antonio placates Lovino with a promise that he'll only be a minute, and then starts climbing. He reaches the ledge and stops, and I know he's looking at me, even though my back is turned. I can feel all of their eyes watching me in varying states of emotion, wondering at my absence, my silence, and I want them to stop.

                I want them to leave me alone.

                But I don't want to stay silent as Antonio approaches. I want to turn on him, strike at him, unleash all of my anger on him, because he's here and Matthew's not.

                Then Antonio struggles down onto his knees. And I finally move.

                I look down at him: his strong back is rounded, his fists are buried in snow, and his head is hanging so low to the ground that his nose almost touches it.

                In a soft, sad voice, he says to me: "I'm so sorry, my friend."

                I feel blind fury wash over me.

                Antonio is here, and my Matthew is gone. Antonio is here, _because_ my Matthew is gone.

                I raise my hand to strike him, hating him.

                I raise my hand, wanting to punish him for being alive—

                Then I see Lovino, standing a few feet away. He chose to follow Antonio up the slope, even though the wolf told him not to. Lovino would follow him anywhere, I realize, and Antonio knows it. He knows Lovino is there. He doesn't lift his head, doesn't move at all, but he knows that his mate is there with him, for him, _choosing_ him, just as my Matthew chose to leave for me.

                The hollow ache that fills me is worse than the anger. It hurts more than anything.

                I lower my hand to rest upon Antonio's chocolate head, and I say:

                "I'm glad you're safe. Brother."


	14. Thirteen

**GILBERT**

I hear Antonio coupling with his mate.

                It's late in the night and everyone else is fast asleep. Arthur is sick; Francis is exhausted; and Alfred is too human to sense it, but I do. They think I'm asleep too, outside the cave, away from the pack, but I can hear them and I can smell them and when I crack open an eye and tilt my head I can see their shapes moving together in the darkness. It's slow and quiet. Lovino is lying on his side—almost on his stomach—and Antonio is pressed against his back, one leg curled over his mate's hip—almost on top of him—and he pulls Lovino to him even as he moves. Lovino is breathing hard into the hood of his coat, and smells sweet and warm and musky. Antonio is louder, a growl working his way up his throat and becoming a grunt against his closed lips, which are pressed tightly together. He smells like the wild, like sweat and salt and blood; like want and need.

                I close my eyes and turn away. I try not to listen, or imagine what it feels like to mate a human-boy. I try not to feel the prickling of my skin, or the pang in my heart.

                I try not to know how much Antonio and Lovino love each other, even as they whisper it to each other in the dark.

                I try to pretend that I don't care, don't know, don't want, don't need, but it's all a lie, because I do. And it hurts.

                I wait until Antonio and Lovino have fallen asleep, then I shift into my wolf-form, leave the mountain, and disappear into the forest.

* * *

**MATTHEW**

Cal?"

                He's sitting in a high-backed chair made of antlers, his feet resting on the stove as he sharpens Al's knife. He seems to think he's entitled to it, a dowry gift for him. It's a pretty thing, the knife. Al keeps all of his equipment clean and oiled. Cal gives it more attention than he gives me. He doesn't even look at me when I speak, just grunts in vague acknowledgement.

                It's late and the candlelight wanes.

                Emboldened by his mollified state, I say: "Why do you want me?"

                He snorts, like I've made a joke. The knife scrapes against a whetstone. "Because you're the most beautiful person in the village," he says.

                "And?"

                I wait. And wait.

                Finally, he looks up at me. "And what?"

                My chest tightens. I shrug a little. "What else?" I ask, hating the hope in my voice.

                Cal's dark eyes blink at me, his brow creased in confusion. But it's fleeting. He shrugs dismissively, and says, reassured and conclusive: "What else matters?"

                I stand in the doorway, watching him work the pretty knife. I wait again, but nothing more is forthcoming for me, so I leave, dejected, disheartened, and disappointed in myself for hoping at all.

* * *

I go back into the kitchen and realize that there's something quietly destructive and savage in myself; something that's always been there, or something that's been growing. I don't know.

                _I can do damage_ , I think as I stir a potent sleeping-draught into Cal's cup. _Just because I don't want to hurt anyone doesn't mean that I can't_.

                _Survival_ , whispers something inside of me, and I don't know if it's my soul or Gilbert's, the soul of a wolf, but I trust it. I know it. I need it to give me courage to survive the life I've chosen: courage to remain patient and passive and docile, and not ever lose myself to anger or sadness or desperation and stir too much poison into Cal's arrogant, defenseless body. I'll have to learn to temper the wolf-soul with my humanity, lest I go back on my promise—the vows I'll make at my wedding.

                _Wedding_ , I grimace, feeling my insides twist. _Married to Cal. Cal's—mate_.

                I shake my head. I'll be Cal's partner by law, but never his mate.

                " _Beautiful_ ," he says, but his compliments give me no pleasure. It's a compliment for himself, congratulating himself on acquiring a prize, on winning a hunt. It has nothing to do with me, and I don't know if that makes me feel more rejected or relieved.

                " _Beautiful_ ," Gilbert said to me, as if it was a fact and not an opinion. " _Beautiful_ ," like it was something I was, like being tall, or blonde; a part of me, but not the core of me. " _Beautiful_ ," like it was _something_ , but not _everything_.

                I was never a hunt to the white wolf. I was a choice.

                I think of Gilbert as I stir, then set the spoon aside. I think of how handsome he is, with his red eyes, and his spider-silk hair, and the deep lines and flat planes of his body, his jaw as sharp as a sickle. I think of what he feels like, and what he smells like, and what he sounds like when his low, growling voice purrs in the back of his throat. I think of his smile, and how it shows his teeth and makes his eyes flash; his laugh, how it rolls, and his endearingly innocent sense of humour. I think of how much he frightened me once, and I chuckle to myself, because it seems so long ago. I feel removed from that place of fear and wonder and estrangement, but never from the curiosity, because I want more of him. I'll always want more. He bit me and claimed me—I lovingly stroke the pale pink mark on my neck—and has preoccupied me ever since. I feel full of him, even now, and I hope the feeling never fades. As much as it hurts, I hope this yearning never leaves me, because if it does then I'll have nothing left. I'm empty without my pack, my mate, my Gilbert.

                " _I would've really liked to be your mate_."

                I have to press my hand to my mouth to suppress a sob.

                _I don't want to do this_ , I think as I take Cal's laced cup and return to the front-room. I walk slowly, biting my lip, willing myself not to cry.

                _I don't want to be yours_ , I think when I see him and feel scared.

                I want my pack, my home. I want the wolf who promised to protect me. The one who truly loves me.

                I hand Cal the cup. He takes it and our fingers brush and I almost jerk away, because I'm scared. Of him, of the village, of the choice I've made.

                I'm scared because I don't want to do this. And I don't know if I can survive it. And it hurts so gods-damned much.

* * *

**ANTONIO**

Gilbert left."

                " _What_?" I startle, rubbing sleep from my eyes. I push myself off of Lovi, who's curled beneath me. He has my arm trapped under his head, his soft, dark hair tickling my bare skin. He looks so sweet and beautiful, if disheveled, and he smells wonderful—he smells like _me_ —and I lean down and kiss his cheek, prioritizing him over everyone else. Locked in the public-house's cellar, I was afraid that I would never see him again; never feel him or smell him or hear his mellifluous voice. I was afraid _for_ him, his safety and well-being; afraid for his tender heart. It would've driven me mad with anger and grief if I hadn't been released. But Lovi is here now, safe in my arms, and I will never, _ever_ lose him again. I will never lose any of my pack—

                Matthew is gone. And Gilbert is—

                "No," I say, sitting up, dragging Lovi with me. (He moans softly, such a sweet sound.) "No. Gil, he can't—He wouldn't!" I argue, but Francis shakes his head.

                "Can you blame him?" he asks gently. Arthur is lying against him, his head on Francis' chest. He's shaking a little, and only half-conscious. Francis squeezes him, his face ashen, his voice tight with worry. "Gilbert lost his mate, Toni."

                He sounds sad. My Francis is so sad, so worried, so afraid for us all.

                "Good riddance," says Alfred, sitting with his knees pulled to his chest, cradling his shotgun. He looks angry, but his eyes are red. He's... crying.

                " _Good riddance_ , _you thieving mongrel_ ," he whispers sadly and buries his head.

                Matthew, Gilbert, maybe Arthur—our pack is falling apart.

                I look down at Lovi; he looks up at me. I want to tell him that everything will be okay, that I will protect us—all of us. But I can't, because I've already failed.

                "Gone," I repeat, feeling hurt. Gilbert is my pack-brother. Why would he leave us without saying goodbye?

                Lovi cups my cheek and I lean into his touch, comforted by it. I feel a whine working its way up my throat, but I suppress it, because Arthur is dying, and Francis is scared, and Alfred and Lovi are sad, and Gilbert is gone, and so I cannot be any of those things, because I have to be strong.

                I stand up, taking Lovi with me. It's a little painful, but in a good way. Sometimes pain can be good; it keeps you alive. I lift my chin, set my jaw.

                I've never been the alpha before. I don't want to be. It's too much responsibility, too much balance between wolf and human, and I've never been good at being either.

                I take a deep breath.

                "Get up," I order, my voice shallow and reedy. "It's time to—"

                A scent on the breeze. The footfalls of someone tall and lean and fast, someone who looks like cold but smells like heat.

                Francis and I look to the cave entrance as Gilbert stalks inside. He throws a handful of bird carcasses to the floor at my feet, then shakes the snowflakes from his hair. He's re-tying his shirt, but stops when he sees us all looking at him in bafflement.

                "What?" he asks, defensive. "None of you are hungry?"

                I don't reply.

                Alfred looks shocked, relieved. He says: "You—came back?"

                Gilbert scowls at him. "Eat," he orders with authority. "Then pack up everything and get ready to leave. We make for the city across the mountains." He pauses, looks at Arthur. "We've lingered here for too long."

                I instinctively incline my head to him, baring my neck. Francis does the same, but he quickly catches himself and straightens.

                I watch Gilbert leave to keep guard while Lovi and Alfred prepare a meal, and, unbidden, a smile steals onto my face. Once a stranger to us, once a threat, and now he's my brother. Now, he protects us, provides for us, considers us his own.

                He belongs with us, now. And we belong to him.

* * *

**MATTHEW**

It's our wedding day, and Cal is in a temper.

                At least he didn't touch me last night. He slept the sound, snoring sleep of the heavily drugged, but I didn't. I couldn't even close my eyes. I sat in the kitchen and listened to the birth of my new life. I thought a lot about drugging Cal again tonight, playing with the bottle's stopper, but decided against it. I might not have to, after all. Maybe Cal will drink enough at the wedding and put himself to sleep. I can only hope, because I have to save Arthur's sleeping potion for needier times. I have to ration it, because once it's gone I can't remake it.

                "That wolf," he sneers, reclaiming my attention. He's pacing the room in a fervor. "It pretended to be a man, a human-man."

                "Well," I mutter, feeling aggravated, "he succeeds at it better than you."

                Cal turns on me so suddenly, I don't realize what's happened until I feel his hand wrapped around my neck. His meaty fingers crush my windpipe, making me choke. "Do not provoke me," he warns, drawing me close enough to smell his breath. "I would strike you if I didn't want you pretty for our wedding ceremony. But when we're married—" his grip tightens; I feel a burning in my chest, "—you will never talk back to me. You will never raise your voice to me. Me, your husband and master. You will be the perfect gods-damned spouse, _remember_?"

                He jerks me. Tears fall from my eyes, not because I'm sad or afraid—though, I'm both of those things—but because I can't breathe.

                "Quiet," he lists, "obedient, docile, and doting. You promised, Matthew."

                Finally, he lets me go. I fall to my knees, wheezing and coughing. He waits for me to finish, to gasp: " _I know. I will_. _I promise_."

                Cal looks studiously down at me, trying to determine my trustworthiness. "I know what I deserve," he warns me, again.

                I should stay down. I should stay silent, but I don't. I lift my head, meeting his gaze, and say: "Yes, so do I."

                His fists curl. I can see him considering my face and whether or not I'm worth striking, but in the end he only glares.

                "That wolf made you talkative," he spits in insult.

                "No," I say quietly, after he's stormed out. I rise shakily to my feet, rubbing my throat. "He's just the only one who ever listened."

* * *

I've never wanted to be someone's happily ever after. I've never wanted to be the prize at the end. I don't want to wait and passively watch the journey, but be _on_ the journey with the one I love. I want to be his present, not his endgame. I don't want a happy ending, because I don't want an _ending_ at all. A love—a marriage, a partnership—should be the beginning of something long and wonderful, not its end. Why do all of the stories conclude with a wedding, as if that truly is The End?

                I ponder these things as I walk to the chapel, side-by-side with Cal.

                I walk draped in my red cape. Cal lets me wear it, because it's a fine garment and the nicest piece of clothing I own. It's bright and long, richly dyed and masterfully made—and imbued with magic, but I don't tell Cal that—and I look nice in it, but none of that is the reason I like it. I hug it close to me, because it feels like my pack. I hold it tightly and take comfort in the old, preserved folds, because it's familiar and safe and a shield against everything else.

                The atmosphere in the village square is celebratory; not for me or my wedding, but for Cal's victory over the presumed threat he vanquished. People are never more united than when facing a common enemy, and the villagers look collectively relieved, now, to be rid of _the witch_ and the wolves. It manifests in their smiles and congratulations for me. I accept a few compliments in resignation, even now unwilling to be impolite to the kinder members of our xenophobic society, but otherwise I'm left alone in the crowd. I'm no one's priority here, not even Cal's. I stand at the butcher's side, my hand limply ensnared in his: a pretty accessory for Cal to be proud of.

                "You look so perfect together, Cal!"

                "How beautiful Matthew is, Cal!"

                "What good fortune you have, Cal!"

                I might as well be his handsome new coat, for all of the objective attention I receive. I don't smile, and I don't speak, and I don't make eye-contact, and everyone likes me better for it, because I look more alike a painting this way.

                These people don't know me. These people don't love me. And I—

                _I don't want to do this_.

                But I do. I take a step, then another. The chapel swallows me. The priest says the words, and I hear myself reply. I make a vow I don't believe in to a man I don't love, then I sign the register. My name: _Matthew Kirkland_. Cal signs with an _X_. I endure his kiss, letting his mouth seal my fate before a congregation of witnesses. And it's done. I'm married to the butcher.

                I press my lips together and clench my fists, digging my fingernails into my palms. I stare straight ahead as I retreat from the chapel, looking at nothing and no one. I focus on breathing in and out, in and out. I do all of this to distract myself from what I've just done, and to keep myself from crying for all that I've lost. In the square, the sky is bright with a bruised sunset, blue and pink and purple. I'm given a cup I don't drink from as the crowd toasts Cal, my husband, wishing him wealth and health. Cal drinks his drink, then mine. He chortles and guffaws and bursts forth all manner of blunt, boisterous noises. He basks in the attention of his admirers, discarding me like the aforementioned coat when I prove an inconvenience to his games. He and his companions talk about me in front of me, but not to me, and I think that's the worst part of all. I try not to listen. I try not to regret my wasted time with Gilbert, wishing, now, that I had given myself to him when I had the chance. I'll think of him tonight, even though I shouldn't, even though it will hurt. I'll close my eyes and imagine Gilbert instead of Cal, and I'll try not to cry,  and I'll try not to scream.

                I turn away from _my husband_ and take a deep breath to steady my nerves. As I do, I survey the square. It's really not as bad as it could be. The hasty reception is much smaller than I thought it would be, given Cal's popularity, but I'm glad it's small. I'm glad the hunters are not present.

                _Wait_.

                I scan the crowd again. I frown. Then my heart starts to pound as cold realization seizes me:

                Cal's hunters—his most trusted, sycophantic supporters—are nowhere to be seen.

* * *

**GILBERT**

I hear them before I see them. And I smell them before I hear them. But neither sense warns me in time to divert the pack. By the time I know we're in danger, our path has been blocked.

                "Gilbert," says Francis, stopping dead. His back is straight despite the weight of his mate, rigid as a hunting dog. He holds his head high, his blue eyes wide, and his nostrils flare as he reads the malignant scent permeating the forest. His unblinking gaze meets mine.

                "I know," I say.

                "What?" Alfred asks. He glances between us, even as he unbuckles the shotgun slung over his shoulder. He hoists it up, holding the butt securely to his shoulder. " _What_?"

                A growl grumbles in Antonio's throat, and he pulls Lovino closer to him. His green eyes are narrowed as they scan the trees.

                " _Hunters_ ," he says.

                "Villagers," I correct.

                The men crashing clumsily through the forest are not hunters, no matter the weapons they carry, no matter the damage they do. A reckless pup with a loud bark and a clear, clean path is no hunter. If a wolf hunted in the way these humans do, he would starve.

                "I knew it," wheezes Arthur to himself. He can no longer stand upright without the crutch of his wolf, despite the rest he got, the food he ate; though, it took a while before he could eat without vomiting. He stands now because Francis' arm is wrapped firmly around his middle, his body a brace for the weakening fey-child. "Stupid, stupid," he berates himself harshly. "I knew this would happen. I knew they would come."

                "But Mattie left to—"

                Arthur silences Alfred with a bloodshot look. He's tired and angry and upset over the loss of his pup, and he doesn't want to argue about it anymore.

                Francis says: "Gilbert."

                Antonio says: "They're getting closer."

                They're both looking at me, waiting for me to make a decision. The humans block our path, which leaves us with two options: Do we go forward or back? Going back seems illogical, but continuing forward could risk the human members of our pack. The mountain is unforgiving, and even if Alfred and _maybe_ Lovino could scale the cliffs, Arthur most certainly could not. Besides, going forward would leave us exposed to attacks; we would have no defense as we climbed. But retreating feels like a surrender.

                I stare into the forest, our current path. The safest path. And I can smell them. And I can hear them. And I know that we must go forward or back or face a danger that outnumbers us. They're only humans made of meat, but humans with shotguns and fire.

                _What do I do_? I've never had to consider the safety of fragile pack-members before. I've never considered them worth preserving.

                Antonio valiantly tries to shift forms, but stops with a sharp, abrupt yelp. We fall stiffly silent as we listen for signs of approaching danger, waiting for the humans to notice us, but nothing changes. ( _Stupid humans_ , I think, _deaf to everything but their own advance. It's an insult to wolves that they call themselves hunters_!) The chocolate wolf, sweating, breathing hard, bows his head in embarrassed apology for the noise, and for his inability to take a stronger shape. Lovino tries to dismiss it—his gold eyes wide, his brow creased; his hand stroking the wolf's head—but Antonio stares at me.

                " _Gil_ ," he says.

                " _Gilbert_ ," Francis urges.

                They look to me for guidance, for a decision, but I don't know what to do. I could shift and fight in the pack's defense, but I don't. Without the other wolves, the backbone of my pack, my attack would be a wasted effort. I know I'm strong, but I would be overwhelmed by numbers and weapons. I would buy my pack minutes only before I was cut down. If I were alone, I might run. I'm fast and fleet and confident I could lose the humans quickly and easily. But I'm not alone, and I don't want to be. It's been a long time since I've had dependents to protect, but the feeling has been growing inside of me for weeks, and I would no sooner abandon my human-brothers now than choose exile again. I could escape on my own, live on my own again, but I don't want to. I've become too attached to this strange family I've found. They are my second chance and I will not waste it.

                "I—I know I'm not a wolf, or—or anything," says Alfred, cutting in.

                Francis, Antonio, and I turn toward him and he hesitates. He's nervous. I've never seen him nervous before. Scared, yes. Annoyed, angry, suspicious, yes, but not nervous.

                His blue eyes lift to meet mine and they're shy.

                "But I know a route back to the village."

                He points—not right or left or up, but down. I follow the direction, down, down, down the steep, icy edifice of the mountain to the river. It's flowing fast and loud.

                "If we cross the river, there's a shortcut. It's not a path. It doesn't follow along the river. It goes deep into the forest."

                "Back toward the village?" Lovino's voice is small and scared.

                "Run _toward_ the threat?" Antonio is skeptical.

                "Don't ever leave the path," Alfred recites, looking at Francis. "That's what you've always told us. That's what _everyone_ is told. It's basically law. The forest is dangerous—except it's not," he says, gaining confidence, "if the danger is your ally." He smiles a little at Francis, then shifts his eyes to me. "We can disappear unnoticed into the heart of the forest. They won't expect it. They think you're monsters," he says to us wolves, "they'll never risk straying from the path."

                I consider his plan. I consider _him_.

                "Do you trust me?" I ask, holding his spitfire-blue gaze.

                "Yes," he says, without reservation.

                "Yes," Lovino echoes.

                "Yes," Arthur rasps.

                And it feels _good_ to be trusted, and needed, and wanted again.

                I lead the pack, with Alfred so close behind me that he treads on my heels. " _Sorry_ ," he says quietly. I don't reply, but I try to measure his pace. He stomps and stumbles through the rocks, the foliage, the bracken, pushing past needled boughs with careless force. Francis grumbles as he dodges an unintended attack, covering Arthur's head with a hand. Arthur doesn't make a sound. He leans heavily on Francis as he walks, slowly—too slow. Eventually, the tawny wolf kneels so that Arthur can climb, reluctantly, onto his back. He locks his arms around the wolf's neck, his blonde head lolling lethargically. I hear a hoarse, whispered apology from him, but Francis doesn't deign to reply. He carries his mate as our broken pack journeys south, slipping past the humans unbeknownst in our cautious retreat. It's not a trek I would have chosen without Alfred's advice. The forest is dense here and impossible to run through, and it's wet. The snow is shallow on the floor, but it soaks through my boots and wets my feet. It's difficult terrain for humans and their bad vision and worse noses and soft leather shoes. By dusk, Lovino is slowing as well, but he vehemently refuses Antonio's offer to be carried. "You're injured," he tells the chocolate wolf, stubbornly closing the discussion. Instead, he wraps an arm around Antonio's waist, and Antonio does the same to him, each holding and guiding the other. They still smell strongly of each other and their urgent coupling, and I think they're both glad for it.

                "Alfred?" I ask, by way of indirect inquiry.

                "Fine," he replies, weary but determined.

                Not long after, he missteps and frantically grabs my arm. "Sorry—" he starts, but I interrupt him.

                "Let go of the gun," I grumble, hating his white-knuckled grip on the deadly thing. It does him no good. "You need your balance."

                He obeys, if reluctantly. The shotgun hangs from its strap on his shoulder, and it's nearing twilight before he trips again.

                I sigh in exasperation.

                "Come here," I order, drawing him to my side. I place a hand on his back and let my body guide his direction, ready to catch him if he stumbles. He doesn't say anything in return, but nor does he shy from me. He can't see in the falling darkness, and I don't want Matthew's brother— _my_ _pack-brother_ —to get hurt. I'm glad that the security of my presence seems to relax him, if only a little, and soon we find a companionable silence.

                "Thanks," he mumbles after a while.

                At first I think he's referring to my literal support, until he adds:

                "For not leaving us."

                I don't speak, not with words. Alfred's voice is already—always—loud. People pay attention to him because of his voice. But it's not words he needs.

                I squeeze the boy's shoulder; feel the knots of tension. The fear and regret and grief compressed into anger; the emotion that is his weapon, his shield; the only true feeling he ever lets show. Until now.

                _I'm here_ , _now_ , says my wordless action. _I'm here_ , _pup_ , _you don't have to be brave anymore. You don't have to fight alone. I'm here_ , _and I'm not leaving. I'm here to protect you_ , _to carry you when you fall. You are my brother_ _now_ , _Alfred. You are pack. And you don't have to suffer alone._

                He leans against me and my hand finds his head. A gentle but firm, acknowledging pat.

                _You are a wolf_ , _Alfred. Everything will be okay._

* * *

**MATTHEW**

None of this is okay.

                I stare at Cal in disbelief.

                "You lied to me."

                He doesn't hear me.

                I say it again: "You lied to me."

                He glances over his shoulder, his attention a fickle, fleeting thing. "Huh?" he grunts, before turning his back.

                " _Cal_ ," I say louder, harsher. I catch many people's attention, but it's a moment more before I get Cal's. "You _lied_ to me. Your hunters are in the forest."

                Cal draws himself up, his barreled chest puffing, setting his half-empty cup aside. "I didn't," he says, smiling in mock-disapproval. His fellows give a chorus of chuckles, noses buried in their own frothy cups. They're all jolly with drink and none of them are taking me seriously. To them, the shackles of matrimony now hold me securely in place.

                " _I'm_ here, aren't I? _I'm_ not out hunting," Cal jeers in proof. "I can't be held accountable for what anyone else does though, can I, Mattie, my love?"

                He hasn't even finished the sentence before a snicker pushes through his wet, bristled lips, spitting a little. Now the men at his table roar with affirming laughter, slapping knees and shoulders and talking over one another in relieved, celebratory self-congratulations, and making jests and rude jokes at my absent pack's expense. It's easy to be brave when you're not staring at danger, and that's exactly what these men are. Cal leads them, conducting them with brutal mental-images and racial slurs that make them all feel strong, superior, victorious—

                _SLAP_!

                The clamor dies abruptly. My palm stings.

                Cal blinks at me for a moment, stunned by the strike. Then his faces darkens to crimson and he glares at me.

                Happy-drunk Cal is gone, now. I've provoked the angry, violent man he is when he drinks. The angry, violent beast he is at his core.

                Without a word he grabs my arm and drags me forcibly through the parting crowd, pulling without a care for my well-being. My boots slide on ice, sink in snow. My shorter gait makes me trip and tumble at the momentum, and crash against people too slow to move aside. I lose my balance, catch my balance, bruise myself in the process, but my new husband doesn't care. More than a few villagers look concerned, and a couple even start to speak or step forward, but they think better of it in the face of Cal's crashing glare. As much as they try to pretend otherwise, the butcher is a dangerous man and everyone knows it. When none of his drinking companions move to stop him, no one else does either. The law is too engrained. I belong to Cal now, and—by law—he can do what he wants to me.

                I don't wait for anyone else, though. The law is nothing but a fragile, burnable, destructible piece of paper.

                I scream at Cal.

                I scream and I fight his hold. I try to yank free of him, though it does no good. "Let go of me!" I yell. "Let go! You lied! You lied to me! You—"

                " _Shut up_!" he snarls, dragging me to the butchery.

                I don't shut up. I scream and scream, until his meaty fist connects with my face. The force of the blow sends me backwards as a stunning, stinging pain blossoms.

                "You do not speak to me like that! You do not speak _at all_ without my say so!" he growls. "You are mine now, Matthew Kirkland! _Mine_! You have always been meant for me, and if the marriage registry wasn't enough to enforce that, maybe _this_ will."

                I back away from him. "No—no! Get away from me!"

                I search for an escape, but I'm too slow in reaching it and Cal grabs me again. His hands are heavy as he tugs on my cape, but the ties hold fast— _fey-magic_ —so instead he thrusts his hands up under it and tears at my clothes. He fights me as I struggle and slap at him, a wall of thick, powerful muscle. He radiates heat. He's anger, greed, and lust wrapped in the sinew of entitlement. Right now, everything belongs to him. Everything is his, and me most of all. He bullies me into the house's main room, where the fire is cold and his cup is dry. I catch my foot on a bear pelt covering the stone and fall, hitting the floor hard enough to elicit a yelp. It contains more fear than pain, but Cal doesn't pause. He folds his body over mine, turning me onto my stomach. Again he tugs at my cape, and again it holds. He pushes it aside and bares my skin, keeping me pressed down with one hand, his knee digging into my leg, while unbuckling his belt with the other. He's loud, even though his voice says nothing. His breaths come in gasping, wet pants; his chest is a heaving mass, stirring a feral grunt within it; his limbs are heavy and his coarse hair scratches against my exposed skin. His boots clap the floor. His fists strike. I struggle with all of my strength to escape, but I can't pull myself free.

                _No—not like this_! _Please_ , _gods_ , _not like this_!

                In desperation, I use the only thing I have left. My voice.

                " _Please_!" I beg him, crying. " _Please_ , _let me go_! _You don't want me_! _Cal_ , _you don't truly_ —"

                "SILENCE!" he roars.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I lied to you, dear readers. This is not the final chapter. It was supposed to be, until it proved really, really difficult. I don't know why I had such trouble writing this one; it just never felt right. It took me a long time to decide on the chronology of events, after which I decided to split the climax in half. So, I hope you enjoyed the first half. The second half—and the actual final chapter (sans epilogue)—will be coming soon! Thank-you again for your patience and support. It never goes unappreciated! :)


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